


One Moment to Last a Lifetime

by Sonderlust45



Series: One Moment to Last a Lifetime [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actually a lot of plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet, Character Death, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Ned Stark Lives, Not Canon Compliant, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Some Plot, What-If, maybe not so slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 85,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonderlust45/pseuds/Sonderlust45
Summary: “Don’t ever leave me alone with him Jon, please” Sansa whispered softly, her voice barely registering, her breath warm against his lips. “Promise me, Jon.” Her hands grasped his shirt tightly. “Don’t go to the Wall, come with me, please. I’m not safe with Joffrey. Even with father there, I don’t think I’m safe. I know it's too much to ask, but please. Please. Please.” Her last please was barely even audible, but he knew it was there. His heart ached for her, for the circumstances she had been resigned to.“I’ll stay with you Sansa. I will keep you safe." Jon was resolute. "The pack protects itself.”--In which Sansa sees the truth of Joffrey before they even leave Winterfell, and begs Jon to help keep her safe, changing the course of events.





	1. One Moment Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've ever written, so apologies if it's not very good!
> 
> **Please note everyone is aged up a few years in this story. Exact ages will be elaborated on when relevant.**

**Jon**

 

_What is it to love and be loved unconditionally? What does it mean to be accepted for all your faults and all your dreams and desires?_

Jon had never known love like that, love without question, the love a mother has for her children. He had only had scraps and pieces doled out in small doses, just enough to keep his heart from starving, enough to keep him sane, but just barely. This is the life afforded to a bastard.

Instead of the joy and love that his half-siblings enjoyed, his childhood had been marred by the disdain that his father's true wife, Lady Catelyn Stark had for him. He was a walking reminder of his father's infidelity. Even worse, he had no mother to call his own, and gods the tongue lashing that he was given the one time he made the mistake of referring to her as mother. He couldn’t even call his father, father in front of her. And even if he could, Eddard Stark was a stoic man, not one to engage in such frivolity. A clap on the back and a gruff, comforting smile was like a sip of water to a man dying of thirst. It only served to prolong his agony.

Catelyn was intent on taking everything away from him, and Jon let her. He felt unending and gut-wrenching guilt at his own existence. _Does anyone else wish they had never been born, or just me?_  

The other children felt sympathy towards him, and tried to make his life more enjoyable. He loved his half-siblings, Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon dearly. Even his half-sister Sansa, despite her aloof disposition towards him. He couldn’t blame her for only trying to placate Catelyn, children only want to be loved and accepted, after all.

He never grew up hungry or destitute, there were always clothes on his back and shoes on his feet. He learned how to ride on horseback at 8, learned archery at 10, and began to learn the sword at 11. He knew these were things that the vast majority of Westerosi would never have access to. But instead of soothing the ache within his heart, it only served to make matters worse, because he found that it led him to not even be able to pity himself. Instead, he was forced to be content with his lot in life, to grin and bear all the humiliations that Lady Stark could conceive of. From sitting at the back of the hall during feasts, to not even being allowed into the hall when the King and Queen visited, she never forgot to remind him of his place.

And that was how he ended up drunk and alone, at the stables, cutting a straw practice dummy to shreds with an old, unsharpened sword. The dull blade meant that most cuts presented as hacks into the straw man’s old, tattered clothing. Pieces of straw would periodically fly into the air from the force of his blows. His chest heaved with the effort of his exertions. His muscles ached and dark, raven curls flew wildly, a mess of tangles. Some curls were stuck to his face with sweat, others stuck to his neck, the tie that tamed them long ago came undone. His mind was singularly absorbed with the task at hand.

And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, the truth was that he pictured Catelyn’s face on that horrible straw facsimile. He hated himself a little bit more with each slash, and simultaneously felt a calm relief with each blow. He was transfixed, stuck on a ledge of self-hatred and exaltation.

“I think it’s dead, Jon.”

He wheeled around, broken suddenly from his trance at the sound of Sansa’s voice. He expected her face to be one of disdain as he thought of what he must look like in this moment. _I must look like a man crazed_.

He felt ashamed immediately. For his appearance, for his actions, for picturing the Lady Stark. But instead of disdain, Jon saw mirth on Sansa’s face. _Is she laughing at me? Am I somehow a joke to her?_ he thought darkly. But once more, she surprised him, as she walked up to him and pulled strands of straw from his soft curls. His cheeks reddened at the intimate act.

“What are you doing out here in the stables Sansa? You should be at the feast, you shouldn’t be wandering alone with so many guests about.” He hated to think of what could befall her, alone at night in the castle.

“I overheard mother tell father that she commanded you not to attend the feast. I thought you might be hungry.” She gestured to a plate of food and a mug of ale sitting on an adjacent hay bale. “You must be after the great battle you’ve waged upon this poor straw soul.” She giggled lightly, her eyes twinkling ever so slightly.

“Thank you, Sansa, that was very kind of you to think of me.” _And very out of character,_ he thought wryly, eyes narrowed in quiet apprehension. 

“I must confess Jon, I talked to Uncle Benjen about the disagreement you had earlier. He told me that you were considering leaving us all here at Winterfell to go the Wall with him. Please tell me this isn’t true.”

“Forgive me Sansa, but you’ve never before been concerned with my comings and goings, why start now?” He immediately regretted his words as he saw the hurt manifest on Sansa’s face. The kindness he had seen was replaced with a mask, the one he’d seen carefully crafted for all the lords and ladies.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Jon, have a good night.” She turned on the balls of her feet, her skirts spinning freely around her, and began to head out the stables.

“Wait Sansa!” Jon called out in exasperation. “Wait, you can’t be walking around alone, at least let me escort you back to the feast.” Her eyes regarded him with a cool, practiced detachment. “As you wish.” He dropped the dull sword, and began to walk alongside her back to the castle. She was quiet and despondent, and Jon felt stifled despite the cool evening air.

“Please Sansa, just tell me what’s wrong.” He begged of her, as he readjusted his speed again to keep up with her brisk pace. He heard her trying to stifle a sob. “Please Sansa, I don’t like seeing you hurt like this.” He immediately thought of the straw Catelyn, and felt overwhelming guilt build within him.

She stopped in an alcove in the courtyard, away from view. “Don’t tell anyone what I’m telling you now. I came to you tonight because I'm afraid, and I don't know what to do. I need your help, Jon.” She fixed her gaze upon him, her eyes wild with fear. “As I was walking today, trying to find Lady, I came upon Joffrey, holding Lady tightly by her leash. He was holding her so tight I don’t think she could breathe properly. She was whining and trying to get away." She paused, hands held into tight fists, her breathing shallow and ragged.

"He then wrapped his hand around her throat and laughed at her whimpering while he did it. I could see the life draining from her eyes. He only stopped when Ser Ilyn Payne interrupted him. I don’t think he would have stopped otherwise, I think he wanted to kill Lady.” She cried out and buried her head in his chest, sobbing.

Jon held her close to him, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach. It was one thing for Joffrey to be, well, Joffrey, as he seemed to be. But it was another for Joffrey to be a monster, and only a monster would kill an innocent pet, even if that pet is a young direwolf. He swallowed hard. What could they do though?  The deal was done. Sansa was set to accompany their father to King's Landing, destined to marry Joffrey, what good would it do to tell his lord father and Lady Stark of what had transpired? How could they possibly go against the will of King Robert?

He continued to hold her tight as she cried in his arms. She looked up at him, her blue eyes peering into his dark grey, regarding him in a way she never had before.

“Don’t ever leave me alone with him Jon, please” She whispered softly, her voice barely registering, her breath warm against his lips. “Promise me, Jon.” Her hands grasped his jerkin tightly. “Don’t go to the Wall. Come with me, please. I’m not safe with Joffrey. Even with father there, I don’t think I’m safe. I know it's too much to ask, but please. Please. Please.” Her last please was barely even audible, but he knew it was there.

His heart ached for her, for the circumstances she had been resigned to. That she must marry this cruel, arrogant boy. Jon had been so keen to devote his life to duty at the Wall. But the words of Tyrion Lannister had sown seeds of doubt within his mind, and maybe this was a more important duty? After all, what is more important than family?

He looked down at her, her eyelids red, and cheeks puffy. He held her tightly against him. He felt a gnawing within his gut.  _If nothing else, at least I'll be able to keep Arya company,_ Jon thought to himself, chewing his lip in concentration.

His decision had been made. 

“I’ll stay with you Sansa. I will keep you safe." Jon was resolute. "The pack protects itself.” He sighed as he felt her soften, the fear and stress leaving her slowly.

“Thank you, Jon. I will never forget this sacrifice that you are making for me. I know what I ask of you is so great, but I don’t know who else to turn to. Robb must stay at Winterfell. I didn’t know who else to turn to, I didn’t know what else to do” She began to ramble on. He smiled softly, looking down at her, seeing her for the woman that she was becoming.

The pack protects itself. He was part of the pack, even if he was a bastard.  

 

\--

 

Convincing his father to allow Jon to join the procession south to King’s Landing had proved a monumental task. Lord Stark seemed to have an alarming degree of fear over Jon heading south. He also had reservations about leaving Robb alone at Winterfell, with only Theon to help him lead. Lady Stark still had not left Bran’s bed after his fall, her grief had only made her rage towards Jon worse. He appealed to his father that he could not stay in Winterfell for another minute, with the torment that he was being made to endure.

He finally convinced his father when Jon gave him an ultimatum on a scouting ride, looking for Nightswatch deserters. “Either I head up north to the Wall with Benjen, or I head south with you, Arya, and Sansa. But at least if I'm in King's Landing, I can help protect them, instead of freezing to death alone.” His boldness only served to make Lord Stark smirk at him.

“You are growing up Jon, and you will be a good man. Stubborn as hell, but good. Just like your mother.” his father smiled ruefully at Jon, as Jon's ears perked up at the mention of his mother.

“Who was she, father?” his voice almost cracking at the emotion he felt inside. This was the first time his father had brought up Jon’s mother in years. Perhaps their distance from Winterfell and Catelyn had finally allowed him the freedom to speak of her.

“That is a story for another day Jon. I promise I will tell you as soon as I know that you will be safe.” His father’s cryptic words hung in the air, leaving Jon to ponder how his own safety could be jeopardized by simply knowing the name of his mother. But stubbornness ran in the family, and Jon knew that his father, much like himself, would say no more than he wished to. So, he resigned himself to accepting this small piece of information as the only information he would get. And he cherished it. Stubbornness on both sides of the family, he chuckled to himself.

The procession began the next day, southward bound, at a snail’s pace. The column of travelers was hampered by carriages and constant breaks. Jon bored of the monotony. Only the King and Queen could make a journey such as this a great bore. He kicked his boots into the side of his horse and galloped to the head of the procession, eager to join the scouting crew.

 

\-----

 

**Sansa**

 

The procession had carried along the King’s road for weeks now, with only short breaks for the evening. Today, the procession made camp, intent on staying near a village near the fork for several days. As soon as the camp was set up, Arya ran off with Jon to practice swordplay with the small sword that he had gotten for her. They had meant it to be their own secret, but they were not nearly half as secretive as they thought they were. Arya had named it Needle.

_Such a stupid name for a sword. Swords should be named something grand like Heartsbane or Brightroar. They should have meaning, like the ancestral Stark sword Ice, which serves to echo our family’s words. All that Needle does is remind everyone that Arya is a child who can’t even sew._

She walked along a garden path with Lady trailing behind her, picking flowers as she went. Though she loved Arya, she also often found herself loathing her younger sister. Sometimes she even caught herself envying Arya, for her wild carefree nature, for how similar she was to Jon. Though Jon had promised to keep Sansa safe from Joffrey, he also had promised to keep Arya safe, and it often seemed to Sansa that Jon was helping her out of duty, and Arya out of love. 

“My lady!” Her back stiffened.  _What does he want?_  

“My lady! Lady Sansa!!!” His shrill voice carried through the bushes, invading her ears. She stopped, composing her mask for him, for _her_ Joffrey.

“My prince!” She smiled demurely at him as he ran towards her. Her insides threatened to betray her as bile forced it’s way up her throat. His thin lips pursed upwards into a smile.

“My lady, you shouldn’t be walking alone in the woods, it isn’t safe for a beautiful maiden such as yourself” He purred at her, wrapping her arm around his own. “Allow me to escort you. Where were you headed my lady?” He pulled her tight to him.

 _I_ _can’t ever walk anywhere alone can I?_   She wondered miserably whether Arya was ever treated such as this.

Sansa and Joffrey wandered the woods and village that afternoon, Joffrey becoming quite drunk on red wine he had pilfered from his _dog_ , the Hound. Sansa kept composure, drinking only small sips when he insisted. She had never been so covered in cold sweat her entire life. She only hoped he was the type to be jovial in his cups, but her betraying gut told her that was not likely.

They came upon a river, and heard shouts of play. Joffrey insisted she must come with him to investigate. Sansa recognized Jon and Arya’s voices before she saw them. A third voice called out, one that she did not recognize.

As they got closer to the river, Sansa saw that Arya and a young, rather round boy were sparring with sticks, while Jon looked on. Jon was smiling ear to ear, and yelling out advice every so often.

“Mycah, keep your arms up even when you aren’t thrusting, it’ll save your life one day.” Jon called out. His face turned downwards when he saw Sansa’s arm encircled by Joffrey’s. A voice called out in her mind _This will not end well, no matter what happens._ And yet, there seemed little that Sansa could do to stop it. Joffrey regarded the scene before him, smirking widely, eyes wild with a plan that was quickly forming in his twisted head.

“Hey you, fat boy!” He called out. “You are hitting my lady’s little sister with that branch. Do you know what the punishment is for hitting the future Queen’s little sister??” He paused waiting for a response.

Mycah’s voice was quiet and trembling “No m’lord”. He dropped the branch on the ground, and looked frozen in place. Joffrey bristled at Mycah. “The punishment is death.”

Joffrey pulled out his sword and placed it to Mycah’s cheek, opening up a small, deep gash. A tendril of dark crimson blood poured forth, wetting Joffrey’s blade, and leaking down onto the bright green grass.

Arya began to scream for Jon to help, and Jon sprang into action, a determined look upon his face. Sansa looked pleadingly at Jon, begging him with her eyes not to make her life even more difficult. His face softened, and he appeared to be trying to think of another option. 

“You wouldn’t seriously waste your time with this boy would you, _your grace_?” Jon sighed offhandedly, trying to indicate as strongly as he could that Mycah was not worth Joffrey’s time. Joffrey smiled at Jon, his eyes tightening as he sneered. 

“No, I suppose you’re right, he couldn’t handle my blade. Could you though, bastard?” His blade turned to Jon, the tip was only inches from Jon’s chest. This had not been part of Jon’s plan.

Sansa ran up to Joffrey, holding his sword arm in both of hers. “Please my prince, please leave him be. Everyone knows you are the best swordsman. Please don’t hurt my half-brother!” She begged, tears streaming down her face. Mycah had run away as fast as he could. Joffrey’s sword moved forward despite Sansa’s begging. The tip now pushed into the fabric of Jon’s tunic. Jon’s eyes had darkened from grey to almost black. His hand had moved to his sword hilt. His fingers were twitching, aching to end this. Sansa knew that Jon could kill Joffrey with a single move, he was both taller and stronger than the slight prince. Her heart beat harder than it ever had before. If Jon did this thing, if he drew his sword on Joffrey, it would mean his death.

Arya screamed at Joffrey “Leave him alone, leave him be!”.

Then, in a moment of clarity, Arya whistled, and her direwolf, Nymeria bounded forward out of the bushes and pounced on Joffrey. Jon rolled swiftly out of the way of Joffrey's sword. Nymeria clamped down on Joffrey’s sword hand, puncturing the thin, white flesh.

Jon screamed at Arya “Get Nymeria off of him, NOW!” His face was angry and fearful at the same time, as he tried himself to pull the beast off of Joffrey. Arya called to Nymeria, and she bounded back into the woods, jaw covered in blood. Sansa stood in horror at the scene before her. Jon had been thrown to the ground by Nymeria, a smattering of Joffrey’s blood had streaked across his face. Joffrey lay near Jon, screaming in pain, holding up his mangled hand. Blood poured from the wounds, and his face was pinched together in agony. Arya stood there, branch still in hand, gazing down at Joffrey’s sword. It still had small red lines of blood down the hilt from Mycah’s cheek. Jon recovered himself quickly, and shouted at Arya to get help.

“Your grace, I apologize for this. I apologize for it all. I apologize for Arya and for Nymeria, I am sorry that this has happened.” He was trying to appeal to Joffrey.

_There’s nothing to appeal to, Joffrey isn’t human._

Through gritted teeth, Joffrey choked the words out. “I. Want. That. Wolf. Dead.”.

Jon and Sansa looked at each other, sharing an unspoken understanding that Arya would never let that happen. Jon hung his head, full of guilt.

 

\------

 

 

**Jon**

 

Jon, Arya, and Sansa stood in front of King Robert, Queen Cersei, and a very smug Joffrey, who sat nursing his hand. Lord Stark stood behind them all, jaw set, clearly disappointed in his children. A crowd stood behind them all, gawking at the scene.

“Tell it all and tell it true.” Robert commanded of Sansa. Sansa looked at Jon, and his heart leaped out of his chest. He remembered his father’s words, that the truth was always the most important thing, and he nodded at Sansa, as she nodded imperceptibly back at him. She proceeded to tell the whole truth, of Jon and Arya and Mycah. Of Joffrey cutting Mycah and Nymeria bounding out and biting Joffrey to protect them. As Sansa recalled the events, Jon noticed that the queen had become increasingly angry. _Cersei will not suffer this quietly._

Arya and Jon stood, heads bowed slightly in deference. “Is this true?” Robert asked of Jon and Arya.

“Aye, your grace. Sansa tells it exactly how it happened” Jon said solemnly. “I apologize for my actions, I should not have let Arya spar with the butcher’s boy, it was improper. I should not have allowed Nymeria to attack the prince. This is my fault”. Joffrey smirked at Jon, then at Sansa. Sansa’s face paled as she looked from Joffrey to Jon, her eyebrows knotted together in distress. 

“Yes, I suppose it is all your fault bastard. It’s your fault that you are lying to a king. It is your fault that you have coached my dear sweet Sansa to lie to a king, to my father. Bastard’s blood is treacherous by nature, it can’t be helped. We all know the truth is that you conspired to maim me using that terrible mangy mutt of a wolf.” His face twisted into a macabre grin as he finished.

The look of concentration on Lord Stark’s face broke into concern. “Your Grace,” he began hoarsely.

“Enough Ned! Children play, children fight! Haven’t we had enough of this farce!” Robert glanced darkly at his golden son. “You let a baby direwolf get the upper hand on you? What kind of prince are you?” Joffrey’s face fell instantly. He looked at his mother for guidance. “Surely there must be some punishment your grace” Cersei implored, her hand tightening around her goblet of wine. Jon’s gut tightened. His fate was to be decided in the next few moments.

“The wolf. Kill the wolf.” Was all King Robert said before he walked out of the throne room. Joffrey’s face fixed on Sansa’s with a menacing look, as Jon felt both relief and shame flood through his body.

 

\--

 

Parties of Lannister men had searched for a day and a night for Nymeria, but she could not be found. Jon suspected that Arya had found a way to send her away. He had done the same thing to protect Ghost. When it was decided that the procession must continue onward, King Robert had decreed that one direwolf was as good as another.

Horror had passed by Sansa's face as the realization dawned upon her. "Not Lady, no, she is good! Not Lady!" she cried out, screaming. Lord Stark had seemed disturbed by this turn of events, that Lady should be deemed a sacrificial lamb to satisfy this perverse bloodlust. Jon felt the sting of it especially hard, it was his fault all this had transpired, after all. 

Lord Stark took Jon to where Lady was tied up to a post. He looked Jon in the face gravely “Do you know what I am going to ask you Jon?”

Jon sighed resignedly. This was his fault after all. He should’ve done better, been better. "Why are we doing this father, why are we listening to them?" He knelt by Lady, ruffling the fur between her ears. She leaned into his touch, oblivious to her own danger.

"Robert is our king, Jon. What he decrees, we must abide. And Lady is of the North, she deserves better than a butcher." 

Jon looked at Lady and her wide, innocent eyes. In that moment, she seemed to imbue Sansa's very heart and soul. He felt his heart ache for her, for all the wrongs that had been done to such a kind and innocent girl. 

He looked back at his father, crestfallen. He had always done everything his father had asked of him, always tried his hardest to make his father proud of him, to earn his place. And he'd never say it out loud, but he dreamed of one day being given the Stark name. But this? Could he do this?

"I don't think I can do this father."

Eddard Stark put his hand on Jon's shoulder. "Someday, Jon, you will have to do so much worse than this. You will have to make difficult decisions that you will be hated for. You will have to follow orders that you do not want to follow. And you will have to hurt the ones you love, to be the man you must become. I hope that you will remember this lesson some day, hard as it is."

Jon closed his eyes in resignation. He would not let his father down, he would be a Stark. The direwolf must die by his hand, even if Sansa never forgave him.

Jon pulled his sword from it’s sheath, and dragged it swiftly across the small wolf’s throat. A desperate whimper escaped from it’s lips as it’s last breath escaped. Jon hung his head low, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't want his lord father to see how much this had hurt him.

“I’m sorry I failed you father. I’m so sorry this has happened.”

Ned placed his hand gently on Jon’s shoulder. “I know, son, I know.” And walked away.

 

\--

 

Jon stayed behind to wrap the lifeless body in linen. Lady deserved to be buried in the North, she deserved to rest in peace. Afterwards, he sat on a rock in the woods, cleaning the sword as his father had taught him. Lost in his thoughts, Jon didn’t notice Sansa walking to him.

“I know it was you.” She whimpered. Her face was distraught, puffy and red from crying. “I know you killed Lady”. She slapped him hard across his cheek. He had expected her wrath, but he hadn’t expected that.

“I’m sorry, Sansa” He let his fingertips sit on his cheek, slightly reddened by her slap. She looked at him, her lips were curled in anger, tears streaming down her cheeks. He wondered if she could see his own tear-stained cheeks, his own reddened eyes?

Jon sighed, dejected. “What do you want from me Sansa? Do you want me to go? I’ll go, I’ll leave you forever. I’m so sorry this happened, I’m sorry that Lady was killed. I’m sorry that I did it. I will leave tomorrow if you wish of me.” He turned away, ready to walk away from Sansa.

“Don’t ever leave me” she said, reaching out to grab his arm. She held onto him firmly. “Don’t ever leave me alone with him again.” Her timbre was stronger this time.

"I know that you killed Lady, but you only carried out the sentence. Lady isn't dead because of you, she's dead because of Joffrey." 

Jon turned back to her, to see her hands were trembling, her whole body shaking. He couldn't help himself, his hands went to her own for comfort. Her hands were so small, the skin so soft and delicate. Sansa looked up to meet his eyes, tears streaming down her face.

"If you go, he'll kill me too." Her voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he scarcely heard her, and yet her words made his blood run cold all the same.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “I promise Sansa, never again. I’ll never let him hurt you like this again”.

She looked up at him, her eyes wet and bleary. His eyes were set intent on her own, but unbidden, they drifted down to her lips, just for a second.

She wet her lips with her tongue.

A small, almost imperceptible movement. So why did it make his heart beat faster? Why did it feel as though his stomach was in knots?

He placed his hands gently through her long auburn hair, one hand on either side of her neck. It was as though his body were moving against his own will. Was it grief that he was feeling, comfort that he was craving? 

He held her there softly and whispered her name. _“Sansa”._

“Jon” she whispered back. Her hands had moved to his chest, holding him tightly against her by his jerkin. They had never been so close before in their lives. Jon had never once in his life touched Sansa's hair, but now he couldn't remember why he hadn't. It was soft as satin or silk, bright auburn waves.

Why was his heart beating so fast, could she feel it beating through his jerkin? Did she know the terrible thoughts that had begun to spring up in his brain?

It was only when her own hand reached up to cup his cheek, that Jon allowed himself to wonder if she were feeling the same things as he. How long could they stay this way? What happened next?

In the end, she moved her lips towards his slowly, not sure how to proceed. But then again, he knew nothing either.

He pulled her head towards him then, leaning down to her lips, softly kissing her at first. She let out a quiet hum of pleasure that echoed into his very core. He felt something begin to heat up within himself. He began to kiss her deeper, their mouths open this time. He groaned softly into her open mouth, wishing for this feeling to never stop, needing it be stronger. 

It was as if he was falling into her, melding with her. It could have been a minute, or an hour, Jon wasn’t sure, before he came to his senses.

 _Sansa! Sansa! I’m kissing my **half-sister**_ **,** _Sansa. Sansa who tastes like lemoncakes and watered wine and lavender. Sansa who kissed me back. Sansa with the soft auburn hair and skin softer than silk._

Jon released her from the kiss abruptly. As he pulled away, Jon heard Sansa let out a small whine of protest. Her grip on his chest tightened. He felt his stomach flip, and a jolt of desire passed through him, travelling distinctly south. Dangerous thoughts then took hold of him. Thoughts of her heaving chest, her flushed cheeks, her silken hair in his hands. Thoughts of pushing her against the tree, pushing up those skirts, thoughts you can't have for your sister _._

"Why did you stop?" Her breath was ragged, her eyes blown wide _. I won't be able to stop myself if she asks me to kiss her once more_  he thought. His gaze fell again to her chest, to the tight bodice that must be restricting her breathing. Or was it him that was making her breathe like that? He couldn't shake the image of cutting open the bodice, pushing her to the forest floor, taking her as his, loving her the way she deserved to be loved.

"We can't do this Sansa", he managed to croak out, as his body betrayed him. He felt her retreat into herself. Her hands left his chest, her eyes turned downwards.

"I know it's wrong. I know it is. But in my heart, it doesn't feel wrong. Why shouldn't I have some joy before Joffrey takes it all away? He can take what he wants, but we'll know, just the two of us, that not everything he takes belongs to him."

A tear left her eye, and without thinking, Jon swiped his thumb softly against her cheek, wiping it away.

 

 

\----------

 


	2. Love and Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned sits in on small council meetings, Jon and Sansa visit the Godswood, Catelyn comes to a horrible realization, Jon visits a brothel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I don't bring something up, it's happening as per canon. Doesn't seem worth it to rehash something that has already been written much better than I ever could! Trying my best to not let this balloon up too much, and keep it Jonsa-centric, and hopefully just explore this new timeline a bit. Please please please let me know how I'm doing, good or bad!

 

**Ned**

The rest of the journey was uneventful, save for the rift between Arya and Sansa growing wider, and Jon never letting Sansa out of his sight. Ned sighed to himself, fearing that he had been too hard on Jon. None of this was truly Jon's fault. Nymeria never would have attacked anyone unless Joffrey was threatening her family. _The pack stays together_ he thought ruefully, watching Jon trail Sansa through an open meadow.

When they finally came upon Kings Landing, Arya sped forward on her horse to see the big city for the first time. Her excitement always got the better of her. _She’s just like Lyanna, in every way._ And if he was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that that terrified him.

The seven massive gates surrounded by massive walls towered over the procession. Even though Ned had seen King’s Landing before, the sheer size of it never ceased to amaze him. He knew that just beyond those walls lay a city of over a million people, some living in luxury he could not imagine, and some so poor they were barely surviving, much less living.

The city had a certain smell too, one that began to invade Ned’s nostrils. The smell of too many people, too close together. The smell of decay and rot, a smell foreign to the North. Despite the bracing cold and isolation of the North, it never smelled quite like this, and there was nothing quite like waking up to the brisk, fresh air in late fall _. It was quieter in the North too_ , Ned thought as his ears readjusted to the cacophony within the walls of King’s Landing.

As Ned entered the Red Keep, he was immediately ordered to a small council meeting. _The king shits, and the hand wipes, as they say_.

The meeting was made bearable by Lords Varys and Tyrion, who sensed his deep discomfort at his sudden stature within court. It seemed strange to Ned that these two unlikely men had raised themselves up to the small council. When Lord Tyrion had begged Ned for leave to visit the Wall with Benjen in Winterfell, it caused Ned to pause for a minute and question all he had been told of Tyrion. b

The man before him did not appear to be a drunken lecher, but rather a man of high intelligence. Jon and Tyrion had spent nights on the road discussing the many books that Tyrion had borrowed and read from the library at Winterfell. Unfortunately, since Jon had decided not to leave for the Wall, and head instead to King’s Landing, Benjen had implored Ned to not allow Tyrion to join him.

_“It’s just me and a bunch of rapists and thieves Ned, I can’t ensure Tyrion’s safety without Jon there to count on. Tell Tyrion he can piss off the wall another time.”_

Benjen’s words had rung true to Ned, and Ned knew that nothing good could come of allowing Tyrion to run off unattended in the North. And so, Tyrion had joined the southward procession. It seemed strange though to Ned that Tyrion had seemed subdued in the aftermath of Bran’s fall. His oft contemplative nature had become even more withdrawn as the weeks had passed, and it seemed to Ned that much like Arya and Sansa, a rift had developed between Tyrion and Jaime Lannister.

“Ned, what do you think?” came the voice of Lord Tyrion then, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Forgive me, Lord Tyrion, could you repeat your question?” He hoped his behaviour could be excused by exhaustion from the long ride south.

“I said 40,000 gold dragons should be enough of a champion’s purse to attract people from the entire 7 kingdoms, maybe even from Braavos. What do you think Ned?”

 _Tournaments and coin and loans. This is my life now_. He just hoped he had made the right decision bringing Jon here, that Jon could keep his daughters safe, and that he could keep Jon safe. “Where will we get 40,000 gold dragons Lord Tyrion, Lord Baelish?” his eyes now turned to the small, beady eyed man.

_The man who was almost murdered by my own brother. The man who vowed that Catelyn would be his. The man who never even bothered to ask Catelyn what it was that she wanted herself._

“Forgive me, Lord Stark, but we won’t need just 40,000 gold dragons, I expect we’ll need several hundred thousand to cover costs for hosting such a large tournament. Coin for food, for entertainment, for guards.”

Ned’s face paled at that amount of gold, that was more money than the entire Nightswatch required each year to sustain itself. “Surely, we can’t afford such an extravagance, especially since winter is coming?” Ned knew in that moment he had said the wrong thing, no one ever listened to the Stark words anymore.

“Apologies Lord Stark, but the cogs have already started moving, it is too late now to cancel the tournament” came Lord Varys’ calm, assured voice.

“Indeed, the people love a good joust” came the weak, ponderous voice of Grand Maester Pycelle. The shrivelled man, who had been old 20 years ago during Robert’s rebellion had questionable alliances, this much Ned knew.

"Fine we'll have a tournament, a small one, in the king's honour, not mine. I will not have my name connected to this extravagant and unnecessary event" Ned conceded through gritted teeth.

_Is this to be my life now? Small council meetings, small council matters, never having time to even see my daughters._

\------

 

**Jon**

Sansa and Jon walked through the gardens of the Red Keep, Jon ensuring that he was always at least half a step behind Sansa. Even though everything had changed, no one else could know that. He was there as a guardian, a bastard resigned to his fate.

She paused as she regarded a lemon tree, early in it’s flowering. “How do fruit grow from such small buds” she remarked softly, raising her hands to a blossom, and inhaling its sweet scent. “Did you know that the Red Keep has a godswood Jon?” She asked, tilting her head towards him.

“Aye, but there is no weirwood tree there, it was cut down long ago.” His eyes locked to hers.

“Maybe so, but there is still a heart tree, the old gods still have eyes even here, this far South” she said, a smile forming on her face.

“Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. But you never did like the old gods did you Sans?”

“I think they’re growing on me” she said softly. She continued to look on at the lemon tree, at the first small buds of fruit that would swell with life in just a few months.

She appeared lost in thought as Jon looked around the garden. “Where is the godswood Sansa? Can you take me there?” he asked. He hadn’t seen his gods in almost two months, he yearned for the quiet contemplation, for the reverence he gained when he sat by a heart tree. For the quiet clarity he always felt as he sat beside it.

Sansa’s hand extended to his, beckoning him to follow her. Despite his better judgement he grasped her small hand within his, immediately feeling a pull in his body. Flashes to that night near the fork came back to him. Her swollen red lips. Her heaving chest. Her dark wide eyes, bluer than the ocean.

He couldn’t think these thoughts, not here, not where there were Varys’ little birds everywhere, keeping look out. He pushed those treacherous thoughts down deep, as far down as they could go. _But gods, her hand is so soft. It was soft too when she held my face in her hands. I wonder if all her skin is as soft as her hands. I wonder how soft the skin is around her thighs._

He shook his head, took his hand from hers. “Not here, sweet girl.” the last words escaped his mouth and he cringed. He wished he could push it back in, but it had been said, and she had heard it. To his surprise, she simply smiled. “Follow me”, she said smiling knowingly.

When they entered the godswood, the warm sun began to fade away. The trees were too dense for the rays of light to pierce. And as they came to the heart tree in the centre of the woods, Jon felt his heart soften, his pulse slow. The tenseness he held in his shoulders released, and he felt lighter. The concern in Sansa’s eyes had lightened as well. They sat together at the foot of the tree.

“What do you say to the old gods, Jon?"

“Whatever I need to.” He let his voice trail off, feeling the vibration of the tree calling to him. He bowed his head slightly. He felt her eyes upon him as he begged silently for the gods to forgive him, for them to understand that he was trying not to love her, trying not to touch her.

 _I know she isn’t mine to have, I know that even if she were it would be wrong. Then why does it feel this way? Why are you torturing me? Is this punishment for killing Lady? Is this punishment for being a bastard? Is all of this in my blood? Am I fated to suffer?_ His head sunk even lower, as he felt tears threatening to come. A hard lump formed in his throat, all of his guilt and sorrow and shame. _Forgive me_ , he whispered silently.

“I’m sorry that I have dragged you into this, Jon.” Her voice pulled him out of his own self pity. He looked at her sad, blue eyes. Her hair was down again, he preferred it that way. Someday soon, that would no longer be allowed. Someday soon, she would slip from his grasp, and fall into Joffrey’s lap. “I should have never asked you here, I should have just stayed quiet”.

Jon’s hands reached out and pulled Sansa towards him. His hands fell to hers, as they sat just a foot across from each other. “No, I am glad I am here. I will protect you, I will help you. I hope, _I feel,_ that I have changed your fate already” he said determinedly. Sansa looked nonplussed towards him, the smallest blush forming on her cheeks, and a delightfully adorable furrow forming in her brow as she appeared to contemplate his words.

“I’m sorry that I treated you so poorly when we were children. I’m sorry I never saw your heart, your kind soul. I’m sorry you were treated that way by mother. A child cannot help but be born, a child cannot erase their own existence.” 

Her voice wavered, she held his hands tightly. “Every child should know unconditional love, there should never be a loveless child.” Her voice broke, she swallowed the tears down. “You were innocent. You are innocent. You deserve everything this world has to offer. To love and be loved, to be free, to have a family, to have a home.” Her eyes were welling up. “I’m just – I’m so sorry Jon, I’m so ashamed with myself.”

His soul felt exalted and deflated at the same time. _How could I have never seen her like this in all our years growing up?_

“You were just a child Sansa, children are desperate for love and acceptance, especially from their mother. You were only doing what you thought you should.” She looked at him with tears in her eyes, and held his face in her palm, the stubble on his cheeks scratching against her delicate skin. He leaned into her palm, reveling in the softness.

“I wish I could take all your pain away from you Jon.”

He looked back at her, gulping down a hard knot forming in his throat. His body threatened to betray him once more, a buzzing feeling began to arise from the tips of his fingers and toes, coalescing at his core. He looked at her soft red lips once more. 

 _No, I can’t. I won’t. She deserves a family, a child, a castle. I can’t give any of those to her. I’m just a bastard. I have nothing to give you, leave me be!_ His hands retreated from hers. “I should get you back to the castle my lady.”

Her eyebrows furrowed at his lack of familiarity, his attempt to push her out. “Let me love you the way you deserved to be loved Jon”.

His eyes darkened, first with lust, then with anger. “No one could love someone like me, who thinks what I think, no one can truly, completely love a bastard, filled with bastard blood, and bastard thoughts.” His eyes trailed down to her eyes, to her soft lips – _did she just wet them with her tongue again? –_ to the swell of her breasts, to the soft roundness of her hips. _“_ Let me try Jon.”

She held his face again and placed the smallest, most chaste of kisses to his lips, almost familial. Except for the way her hands trailed down his neck to his strong back, pulling him to her. His hand reached out hesitantly, placed delicately on her hips, pulling her towards him. His other hand traced up her neck to her cheek. 

Electricity passed from her to him, and he reached his head towards hers, placing soft kisses on her cheeks, along her soft jawline, down her neck. He felt her pulse quicken, her breathing deepen.

And once again, everything had changed. Jon couldn’t stop himself from leaning over her until she laid onto the forest floor. He couldn’t stop himself from feeling himself against her, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing every piece of exposed skin.

But that’s it. That’s all it can be. _She is promised to **him** , she is not mine to take. I need to stop. _But when he pulled away, her hands reached out to grab him, to pull him back down. “Don’t. Not yet. Stay just a little longer. We won’t do anything more, I just need to feel you here, with me” Sansa begs, and Jon can’t deny her.

 

\-------

 

**Catelyn**

Catelyn was sat in Bran's chambers, gazing upon his peaceful face. His direwolf cub had not left the bed save to eat and relieve itself since the attack on Bran's life. But neither had Cat. She looked at her bandaged hands, that gauze wound so thick and tight that she couldn't even hold a fork, much less her knitting needles. So, she sat in silence, doing nothing but think.

First, she thought of Bran, only of Bran. Then she thought of Sansa and Arya trapped in the pit of vipers that was Kings Landing. She thought of Robb, who had taken on all the affairs of the castle, of the North. In the past two months she watched her first baby grow into a man, stubble forming on his sharp jawline, small dark circles forming under his eyes.

As time went on, Cat wondered what good her appeals to the gods could possibly do? Could her gods even hear her this far North? Or was she alone here with the old gods? The old gods always terrified her, and she always feared entering the godswood alone. The bleeding eyes of the heart tree were all she had seen the past few nights as she fell asleep next to Bran.

 _How did Bran fall from that tower? He had never fallen before. And who would conspire to kill an innocent child? Who would hurt a young boy?_ She felt her stomach sink in shame as she thought on the last time she had sat in vigil like this. Jon had fallen severely ill as a young boy, and it had been uncertain as to whether he would survive the night.

That night she had bowed her head and prayed to the old gods for the first time. She begged them to save the young boy before her. She promised the old gods that if Jon survived, she would treat him as her own child.

But when he survived, when he began to thrive, Cat found herself unable to keep that promise. When Bran and Rickon were born she found herself scorning the bond that Ned and Jon seemed to share. The closer they became, the angrier she too became, and the kinder Ned became to Jon in turn.

This vicious cycle continued, and each year Cat drifted farther and farther away from the promise she had made. She could no longer enter the godswood without her cheeks flushing with her own shame and guilt at her actions. Maybe everything that had befallen Bran was the gods’ retribution? Maybe this was her fault for not being able to love a motherless child. Why couldn't she have just let Jon call her his mother, why had she allowed her pride to cloud her own judgement? _If I promised them now that I would treat Jon like a son would they give Bran back to me? Could I even keep a promise such as that? Could I love this boy - almost a man grown now - as my own?_

Could she look upon his northern features, those that echoed Ned's own, and give him the love he craved? She didn’t know if she was capable of such selflessness. And even if the gods had conspired for Bran to fall from the tower, someone had acted to make an attempt on his life in this chamber. This act was surely the cause of human intervention. But who?

Suddenly, she felt compelled to visit the broken tower that Bran had fallen from. Maybe she could see why he fell?

As she climbed the old, unkempt stairs of the tower, she noticed footsteps in the dust that had gathered on the unused stairs. Her heart began to pound out of her chest, her blood roaring in her ears as she climbed the steps. She came upon the highest chamber that remained in the tower, where the footsteps led her. As she followed them, she saw on the ground a single long, blonde hair. Cersei. _Cersei Lannister. She has my Sansa. She has my Arya. She has my Ned!_ Her entire body felt numb as the realization overcame her.

_I must get to King's Landing._

 

\-------

 

**Sansa**

Sansa ran from the godswood to her chamber, feeling drunk on Jon’s touch. Her skin was buzzing from the memory of his large, calloused hands, and the way they had caressed her. All she could think of was the way her heart was beating out of its chest as he lay atop of her. The way he braced himself, so he would not press down too hard against her, so that she could breathe. But his presence above her made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t in a long time. It felt like she was home.

His hands had wandered though, and when they reached her breasts, cupping the small, firm mounds she had gasped loudly, then moaned in appreciation. In that moment, Jon had lost control, just for a second. He had pushed his length against her thigh. And she had felt his hardness pushing against her. She had moaned loudly, snapping Jon out of his reverie. And he had pulled away. _Why had he pulled away? What is so wrong about two people loving each other, how could something that felt so good be bad?_

She thought of the dreams she had as a child, of a shining prince with golden hair and bright blue eyes who had come to rescue her from her humdrum life. Or maybe a Targaryen prince with silver hair and violet eyes, riding to come save her on a dragon. But when she thought of that prince now, he had long dark hair, pulled back from his face in Northern fashion. He had deep grey eyes that pierced her soul. His face was kind, but weathered by a growing beard. And as she gazed at him, and him at her, his jaw upturned into a wide smile, one that melted her heart.

Her mind drifted to her lessons with Septa Mordane, to the endless droning. _As if a virginal septa knows anything of how the world really is. Had she ever even left the Citadel before she was sent to Winterfell?_ Septa Mordane had taught Sansa that lust is sinful, that sex should never be spoken of, that the only purpose to making love is to make a baby. Sansa should derive no joy from her duty, she should simply lie there and allow her future husband to have _his_ way. _What if I want to have my way? What if I want Jon to lie with me, what if I want to feel him against me again?_

As her thoughts became more vivid, she felt a heat overcome her. Warmth pooled deep, below her stomach, in the parts of her that Septa Mordane told her were sinful. _What if the seven are the sin? What if the old gods are the only gods? What if they revelled in the love that Jon and I hold for each other?_  

Her cheeks flushed at the thought of Jon above her once more, of her hands in his soft raven curls. His eyes looking into her soul. His soft full lips against hers. She fell back onto the bed, wishing he was there with her. Wishing he could soothe the agitation that had built within her. She felt like a jack-in-the-box, ready to burst. The aching had begun to centre down low. She bit her lip and thought of the things she had heard in private whispers between the older girls. _No, something that feels this good cannot be bad._

 

\------

**Jon**

Jon stood in the shadows behind a pillar watching Arya and the strange Braavosi man at their dancing lessons. The movements were smooth like waves rolling across an ocean, the wooden practice sword cutting through the air this way and that. Arya danced about, curving and twisting her body to parry the slow advances the man was making upon her. _There is no other way to learn than by doing, by learning these lessons_.

Jon thought of his lessons in the courtyards of Winterfell by the master-at-arms. He had trained for years now, but he had never seen a man move as this strange Braavosi man moved. Jon hoped that Arya could find her peace here, could learn to take care of herself. He feared that he wouldn’t be able to protect both Arya and Sansa, that he would be forced to choose between them. If it came to that… Jon shook his head and hoped he’d never have to make that choice.

A servant came to deliver Jon to his father’s chambers immediately. Jon sighed, and smiled as he heard the man directing Arya to chase the castle’s cats. “You are too slow young one, your enemies will give you more than scratches if they catch you” the man drawled, and off Arya went again, in search of a certain one-eared tomcat that had eluded her. Jon watched her run off, then walked up to see what his father required of him.

“Jon, I have received word from Lord Baelish that my lady wife has entered King’s Landing. What has possessed her to do such a thing I cannot say, but he is keeping her safe at one of his _establishments_ and I must go see her at once. Keep Arya and Sansa close while I am gone.”

Jon’s eyebrow raised at the mention of Littlefinger and his _establishments._ His father may trust Littlefinger, gods know why, but Jon had heard concerning stories from Lord Tyrion, stories that had him wondering if Littlefinger was not telling the whole truth to his father.

“Father I beg of you, do not trust Littlefinger, do not go with him. Something isn’t right here, he is planning something.”

“How can you possibly know that, Jon.” Ned implored.

“Because Littlefinger is always planning something.” Jon replied, his frustration rising. His father was a good and honourable man, and that would be his downfall someday.

“What would you have me do Jon? Catelyn is with him as we speak, am I to leave her with him? Am I to send her back to Winterfell without seeing her? Lord Baelish has always cared for Catelyn, he has always wanted to protect her.”

Jon pondered this for a minute, was that truly Littlefinger’s desire? _Would you protect the woman who scorned you for another? The woman whose betrothed cut you from neck to navel? Is Littlefinger even capable of love and protection?_

The little that Jon had seen of him, the more he was convinced that all Littlefinger was capable of was desire. Desire to possess and conquer and own, at the expense of all else. _If that were my motive, I don’t think I would care about protecting the husband of the love of my life._

Jon’s face darkened with concern, as he recalled the way that his direwolf Ghost had howled at Littlefinger the first time they met. Since then, Ghost had been relegated to the stables, and Jon had only seen the wolf every couple of days. He suspected the wolf had found a way out of the castle, and roamed the Kingswood most days. _Direwolves see things we don’t see, they see people’s true intentions, and Ghost has warned me not to trust Littlefinger._ _But what do with Lady Stark? We can’t leave her there with him in that brothel, how could he even take her there?_

“Let me go in your stead father, I will receive her message. No one will even notice me gone, no one ever pays me any mind at all.” Ned’s face brightened with the idea. “Be safe Jon, dress in the stable hand’s clothes and make sure you are not seen. Please hurry, and please see that my lady wife is seen safely from the city as soon as possible”. The desperation in his father’s voice was stronger than Jon had ever heard, this was a side he had never seen. _The things we do for love,_ Jon thought darkly.

 

\--

 

Jon arrived at the brothel less than an hour later, and he found himself able to walk right in the front door. _No one ever pays any mind to the bastard_. This time though, Jon found his birth to be of his own advantage. He walked through the halls of the brothel, intent on finding Littlefinger. However, the sounds he heard coming from the curtained off rooms led him to distraction. Soft moans echoed off the walls, and he felt his cheeks redden at the thought of what must be going on within the rooms of this building.

Although he had been tempted into visiting a brothel once before with Robb and Theon, he had never been able to bring himself to use the services of these women. He thought back to himself, sitting on the soft plush bed next to a kind woman who held his hand and told him if he wasn’t ready he didn’t have to. He had looked back to her, at them sitting on the bed, “N ** _o one_** _should ever have to do something they don’t want to do”_ Jon had told her, his eyes full of pity for her.

 _“We all do things we don’t want to do, because we have to. You’ll learn when you grow up, boy.”_ And with that she had left the room.

It occurred to Jon that here he was once more within a brothel, and now he understood what she had meant. He was here because duty demanded, not because he desired to be.

His eyes followed a particularly beautiful young lady, with long red hair. _Red like Sansa’s_. But instead of being soft and silken, and flowing down her shoulders, this hair was wild and unruly, like Jon’s. He found himself wishing it to be more like Sansa’s. She noticed his eyes following her, and she turned back, sauntering towards him.

“I haven’t seen you around here before. I think I’d remember a pretty face like yours” she said giggling, as her hand reached out and cupped his face. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be here?” She said, taunting him. He felt exasperated by her touch, by her boldness. He also felt a pang of anger that she would insult his age, and call him pretty. Gods, he hated being called pretty. _Pretty is a word to describe girls not boys._

Despite everything he was feeling, and the mission he was on, he felt himself leaning into her touch, something stirring within himself. “Aye, I’m old enough”, he heard himself saying. _Did I really say that? That’s not why I’m here_.

“Is it your first time pretty boy?” She asked, taunting him once more. His face darkened to a shade rather similar to a beet. He felt warm all over, with embarrassment and anger, and something else. Something he’d only ever felt for Sansa. _What is this feeling? That I feel as if I am about to burst from my own chest?_

“I’ll let you have this first one for free sweetling” she said smoothly, letting her other hand trail along down his chest. Jon felt his breath hitch, and his breeches tightened at the thought. _No. No, I’m here for a reason. And Sansa, I can’t do this to Sansa. Sansa with her soft, silken hair. Her hair was made to be held._ The woman’s hand had trailed to the front of his breeches as Jon thought of Sansa, and she stood there cupping his manhood, as he stood frozen is his own excitement and embarrassment. _Green boy indeed_.

He felt her hand stroke softly up and down his rapidly expanding length and groaned loudly, in spite of himself. Thoughts of Sansa were not helping to assuage him, in fact they were only making matters worse.

The sound of a throat clearing turned both Jon and the woman’s heads towards it, and Jon felt himself redden further as he saw the noise had been made by none other than Littlefinger himself. “Now Jon, let’s let these women do their jobs, and maybe we should do ours as well, hmm?” his voice full of his own mirth, clearly elated to have found Jon in such a compromising situation.

The woman huffed at Jon and whispered softly in his ear “Any time you want, just come see me, I’ll take good care of you pretty boy”. She sauntered off, her hips swaying, as she looked behind to confirm that Jon was indeed, staring longingly at her firm, round arse. _Gods, what is wrong with me. Maybe bastards truly are lustful, sinful creatures after all._

“I suppose you’re here to see Lady Catelyn, Jon?” Littlefinger’s failure to refer to her as Lady Stark was not lost upon Jon. It merely suited to convince him of his own suspicions, that Littlefinger still held Lady Stark in an unhealthy regard. “Come with me quickly, before anyone recognizes you” he beckoned Jon up a final set of stairs to the highest chamber of the building. There, Jon saw a very distraught Lady Stark, standing by a window, surrounded by Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion. _What a strange group we make; a bastard, a dwarf, a eunuch, a brothelkeeper, and the wife of the hand of the king. There is a joke there somewhere_ …

“Where is Ned??” Catelyn asked pointedly, regarding Jon with suspicion.

“I’m sorry Lady Stark” Jon said, bowing his head low “It wasn’t safe for Lord Stark to journey here in daylight where anyone could see him. I am here at his command and will deliver your message to him directly.” Her face had not softened, appearing to be set in stone.

“This message does not concern you, boy”, her words cutting him like knives. Jon looked at the dark circles under her eyes, at the thick gauze that covered her hands, and finally, at a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt. o

He pressed onwards, trying to forgive her words. “I am here in Lord Stark’s stead, whatever would concern him, concerns me. What has happened to your hands Lady Stark?”

“An attempt was made on Bran’s life using this dagger and I was injured saving his life” she said, holding the dagger out slightly. “I have been told by Lord Baelish that this dagger belonged to Lord Tyrion.” Tyrion’s face exploded in anger, but before he could interject, Lady Stark continued “It is my belief that Bran witnessed something he should not have seen, something involving the Lannisters, and he was pushed from the tower window to silence him. When that did not work, an attempt was made on his life using this dagger that belongs to Lord Tyrion. Tell me Lord Tyrion, what do you have to say for yourself??” She finished, her voice shrill with grief and anger.

Tyrion and Varys shared a knowing look with each other, then they both carefully looked towards Littlefinger, a smile on their faces. “Tell me, Lord Baelish, if I intended on killing an innocent boy to cover up some horrible truth, why would I use my own dagger? It is true that dagger belongs to me, but I assure you I would never, could never harm a young boy.” Tyrion paused, then looked towards Lady Stark, “I assure you, my lady, it was not myself. I was very sorry to hear of Bran’s fall and am very concerned now to hear of this attempt on his life. Tell me truly, do you really think that I am capable of this?” he asked of her, his eyes full of sorrow and anger. _All dwarves are bastards,_ Tyrion’s words echoed in his mind, and Jon wondered if Lady Stark was capable of seeing Tyrion as anything more than she had ever seen of Jon.

Lady Stark faltered for a second, she seemed less sure than she had previously. Varys and Tyrion continued to look at Littlefinger, whose calm, cool demeanour seemed perhaps, to Jon, just a little too calm. “Perhaps we should leave Jon alone to discuss these matters with Lady Stark” Varys said, breaking the tension. Varys and Tyrion began to walk from the chamber, staring at Littlefinger for him to follow. Reluctantly, his gaze broke from Lady Stark, his jaw tightened, and he turned and left, closing the door shut behind them.

Jon turned to Lady Stark, and saw her, perhaps for the first time, as a small and broken woman. A woman who had been thrust into circumstances she had no control over, a woman who had once terrified him. Now, all he saw were the gauze bandages, the stray grey strands of hair escaping the tie that kept them pulled back, and his heart softened.

 _How can I ever hope to love and be loved if I cannot give that same love freely? I must be strong, I must be like my father today._ Jon steeled himself. “Lady Stark, I know you don't trust me, I know that I have made your life more difficult every day for the past 17 years, but hear me now. Littlefinger is lying. I don't doubt Cersei was involved, but Tyrion would not do this. I implore you, you must get home to Winterfell. I will tell Lord Stark all that you have said, as you have said it, I swear it. It will be his decision to make on how to proceed, but you must get home to Robb and Bran and Rickon. They need you now more than ever to keep them safe. Please, keep them safe, as I promise to keep Arya and Sansa safe. We will find out who did this to Bran, and we will punish them, I promise you.”

He let out a breath of relief as he saw that Catelyn had actually, truly listened to him.


	3. The Court of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned connects the puzzle pieces, Jon contemplates his options, Ned missteps, the boar tastes victory and swift defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!! I am at a bit of a crossroads with this story. I could wrap it up in the next few chapters by skipping through some stuff, and skipping some years along the way. But... I'm not sure I want to. Are you interested in me fully fleshing this out? Let me know!
> 
> P.S. I have liberally aged all characters up by 3 years so it's a little more realistic.

 

**Ned**

 

Ned sat at the desk of his solar, trying to focus on a ponderous book that had been given to him by Maester Pycelle. This was the last book that Jon Arryn had read before his illness took him from the world. It was a dull book, focused on describing all members of each of the major families of Westeros. Ned flipped through the pages, skipping past the chapters on the Targaryens. He didn’t need that right now. He paused on the pages of House Baratheon, reading the descriptions of each Baratheon, recorded from the birth of the house hundreds of years ago.

In the back of his head Ned heard Jon Arryn’s final words “ _The seed is strong”._ As Ned flipped page by page, he paused at those dedicated to House Stark. Most of the Stark descendants were described as dark brown of hair and dark of eye, but every once in awhile there was one of red hair or blue eyes. _Red of hair, like Sansa, Robb, Bran, and Rickon. Dark brown of hair like Arya. And Jon. Jon Snow._ Ned paused. He flipped back to House Baratheon and read again once more. _Black of hair. Black of hair. Black of hair. Black of hair. Black of hair. Black of hair. Gold of hair._ Ned’s face paled as a dark possibility crossed his mind. He dismissed it hesitantly.

As he sat, lost in thought, he heard a knock on his door. He beckoned the person to enter and was relieved to find Jon was back from Lord Baelish’s establishment. A look of concentration was plastered on his son’s face, there was fear there too, held down deep. “Jon, what did my lady wife tell you?”

Jon looked hesitantly at Ned, and closed the door to the solar behind him, chewing his lip. “Father… I’m not sure where to begin.” As Jon told Ned the story of what had transpired since their departure from Winterfell, of the attempt on Bran’s life, of Cat’s suspicions of Tyrion, Ned felt sick to his stomach. The truth of the precarious position he had placed his family in by separating them dawned upon him. _I should have never agreed to come to King’s Landing. I should have refused Robert, damn the consequences_. _Now my family is at risk here, my family is at risk at home, I can’t be everywhere at once._

“Jon, I don’t know what the Lannisters are planning, but I fear that you were right, that Lord Baelish is not to be trusted. I don’t believe we can trust anyone who isn’t of the North.” He looked to Jon, whose concern had only deepened. Though Jon was still young, he had a world weary look to him, as he always had. _Bastards grow up faster, they have to,_ Ned thought darkly.

“How many guards did you bring here to King’s Landing father?”

Ned cursed himself for having dispatched many of his own men to patrol the streets in the aftermath of the tournament. Cursed himself for not bringing more men. “I only have 50 men, and you.”

Jon’s face contorted. “That’s not enough father, not to protect you and Arya and Sansa.” Ned nodded in agreement, unsure of how to proceed.

“What do we do now?” Jon asked.

“We wait, and hope, and try to stay quiet until we can talk to Robert privately” Ned replied sternly, wishing he could will Robert back to the Red Keep, but he knew Robert would not be back until the boar was killed and strung up for a feast.

Jon paced the room, trying himself to sort the situation out. Ned wondered what had possessed him to allow Jon to travel south with them. He knew it had been the wrong decision, knew that Jon would not be safe. He had also suspected that Jon would be scorned by the Lannisters, especially by Cersei. To his surprise, it had seemed that Tyrion Lannister had taken well to the boy, and had protected Jon from Cersei’s worst inclinations. The trick had been to keep Jon out of sight, and out of mind. But now, Ned feared they could not continue on this way, he feared that he must keep his entire family closer, must charge Jon with keeping Sansa and Arya safe from whatever the Lannisters were planning.  _But surely Cersei will not abide Jon so much as being in the same room as her, and so often of late she has taken to passing time with Sansa._

Jon paused from his pacing and turned to Ned, placing his hands on an old high back chair and leaning over it, closing the distance between himself and his father. His thick hair fell forward, casting shadows upon his face. “How long do we sit here and wait? Even once Robert returns, what happens next?”

Ned wished he had answers for Jon, but he could not conceive of any. He could not think of how to extricate themselves from King’s Landing without the Lannisters’ suspicion. Tywin Lannister was a cautious and calculating man. Even if he could, Ned felt ill at ease at the idea of leaving Robert alone, a stag surrounded by starving lions. No, they had to stay and solidify Baratheon hold on the throne, for the good of the realm.  

Jon leaned further in, his grey eyes boring into Ned’s in a way they never had before. “Will you still have Sansa marry Joffrey? He’s part Lannister. For all we know it was him that tried to have Bran murdered. He’s a little monster father, prone to jealousy and anger and cruelty.”

“Aye, Jon, I can’t see what else we can do. Besides, Sansa has told me that she still wants to marry Joffrey.” Ned watched as his son’s face brimmed with anger.

“You can’t let her marry that monster, he will hurt her!” Jon’s face reddened as he began to yell, for the first time at Ned, his face a complexity of fear, anger, and embarrassment.

“If you make her marry that creature, at least let me stay here and protect her. Give me your leave to join the Kingsguard when they marry, so I can keep her safe.”

Ned looked upon Jon’s angry, resolute face, and an idea came to his head. Kingsguard. Take no wife, father no children, give up all lands and titles. The Kingsguard were the greatest fighters in Westeros, stories were told of their bravery a hundred years after their deaths. _Could this be the way to keep my promise, and keep my family safe?_

\------

 

**Sansa**

Today was the day that Sansa would be presented to the court as the royal match for Joffrey. He had stressed to her how essential it was that she be perfect. She still had the bruises on her arms that he had left as he held her arm tighter and tighter, until she had whimpered in pain. Her whimpers had only served to make Joffrey snicker at her, he enjoyed watching her in pain. That thought filled her with a sick sense of foreboding.

Sansa spent hours getting ready that morning, bathing herself, having her hair crafted into an ornamental Southron style. She tried on 4 different dresses, until she settled on a soft green dress, with sleeves that almost touched the ground. Green was one of Joffrey’s favourite colours on her, and she hoped that it may serve to gain his favour once more. She had also spent time sewing a gold pattern upon the bodice of the dress earlier that week, in hopes of placating him. She had to be better than she was, she had to learn how to play this game before it consumed her.

As her maids were placing the finishing touches on her hair, she heard a knock on her chamber door. The door opened to reveal Jon standing there, dressed in a black jerkin and black breeches. His sword sat squarely on his hips. His hair was free from it’s tie, sitting in wild ringlets around his face. He hadn’t trimmed his beard since that day in the godswood, and it was beginning to grow in thickly. He had a look of concentration and weariness in his eyes.  _He looks a man grown... He is a man grown now,_ she thought, pulling her lip into her mouth in thought. 

As he gazed upon her, she saw his pupils widen, and his eyebrows raise slightly. She felt her heartbeat quicken. “Leave me be with my brother, we have important matters to discuss” she commanded of her maids. They scurried out the door, closing it as they left.

“You are a vision” he rasped, eyes combing down her.

“Thank you, Jon” she said, smiling their secret smile.

“Just one thing though” he quipped, a smile forming on his face.

“Oh?” she asked pointedly, her eyebrow arching.

He closed the distance between them in a second, holding his hand to her soft neck. “I wish you’d wear your hair down, not in this silly style” he whispered in her ear, his hands reaching up to tug at a tightly wound braid. She shivered against him, feeling his breath against the shell of her ear. “If you were mine, your hair would always be down, ready for me to put my hands in it, to hold it and worship it”. She shuddered against him, her hands reaching for the laces of his jerkin. “Would you let me worship you Sansa?” his voice sounded more desperate now. She couldn’t help but let out a small moan. He seemed to appreciate the noises that escaped her mouth, despite her own impropriety.

She smiled widely as she thought of all the things she’d heard that men do with their ladies, things she’d heard in passing from the ladies of the court in between glares from the Septa. “You are free to do whatever you will with me Jon”, she said, daring him to take her, in the dress meant to impress Joffrey. Hoping he would see that she belonged to Jon, not to Joffrey.

He placed a kiss to her left cheek, then her right, then her forehead. “You and I both know that isn’t true Sansa” he said as he pulled away, leaving Sansa in exasperation.

“Don’t leave me yet Jon, please, not today” she begged of him. “Please, I just – I need to know I’m doing the right thing. I’m scared of him Jon, I’m scared of this place, and I want to leave.” Her voice broke as she spoke, her anguish clear in her face. Jon sat her down on the soft furs that covered her large, plush bed. As she sat down, he sank further, falling to his knees in front of her. He placed his head in her lap, and she let her hands slowly pull through his soft curls.

 _What have we gotten ourselves into? We are surrounded on all sides by enemies._ “Say the word Sansa and I will take you away. We will run back north together tomorrow if you wish” he said hoarsely.

“And then what Jon? What will become of father? Of Arya? I am betrothed to the prince, the son of King Robert. We cannot defy his wishes. If we left, it would be treason. It would start a war between the north and the other kingdoms.” She said, resignedly. Jon looked up into her eyes, staring into her soul. She saw the realization in his eyes, he saw she was right. She was to be the sacrificial lamb, meant to keep the peace.

“Say the word Sansa, any day, any time, and we will leave. I will get you out of here at any cost.”

She smiled softly at him. “My gallant knight” she said teasingly.

“Aye, you may call me Florian the Fool” he said, a twinkle in his eye. She looked lovingly into his eyes, wondering if he knew the story of Florian and Jonquil had always been one of her favourites.

“And I will be your Jonquil” she murmured.

He let out a soft sigh as she continued to run her hands through his hair, combing out small tangles that had formed throughout the day as she went. “I love the way your hair feels in my hands”, she said quietly, a small smile forming on her face. Jon looked up at her, meeting her eyes with his. She noticed his eyes darkening to a storm cloud grey, and creases forming in the corners as he focused upon her.

“What else do you love sweet girl?” he asked, his hands gripping her thighs.

“I love the way you protect me, I love the way you kiss me, I love watching you train at the sword. I love your voice, I love your beard, I love the way you hold me.” She looked down at him, his eyes now dark with concentration. “I love your kind heart, I love your loyalty, I love the way you look at me”.

“How do I look at you, my lady?” he asked, teasingly.

“As if you are about to devour me whole, my lord” she replied with a giggle. She felt his grip tighten around her, felt heat entering into her from his hands, as if they were hot enough to sear her.

“Did you know wolves mate for life Sansa?” he asked, his face betraying his own boldness. But she found that she did not mind it, in fact, it made the warmth inside her pool deep within. She didn’t know quite what she was feeling, but it felt as though she were drowning, and the only thing keeping her afloat were his hands on her thighs, his eyes on her lips, her hands in his hair.

“What of it, Jon?”

“You are not a little dove, you are not a caged bird. None of them see you for what you are. You are a wolf. You must be a wolf to survive this place Sans.” The air in the room had become thick with a heady air, she felt drunk, on his touch, and his words. She moved her hands to cup his cheeks and brought him up to her face, looking deep into his eyes.

“I’m a wolf when I’m with you” she whispered, collecting her courage. She moved her lips to his then, crashing into him. He responded in kind, as hungry as her for their connection. They tumbled backwards into the bed, Jon holding her in his strong arms. She knew her hair could be disheveled, she knew her dress could be wrinkled, but she found she did not care.

Jon paused to hold her close, his head above hers, tugging her tight in the crook of his neck. “I meant to come tell you that I intend to join the Kingsguard after your marriage to Joffrey. As a member of the Kingsguard, I will always be close to you, always able to keep you safe” He said resolutely.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her soul filled with an instant joy, followed by a deep and profound sorrow. “But the Kingsguard are sworn to take no wives, father no children, hold no lands or titles” she said, furrowing her brow. She sat up from the bed. “Do you even know what you’d be giving up Jon?”

“I will never have lands or titles Sans, and the only wife I would ever want I cannot have, the only children I want will never be mine. At least this way you will be close, and I can keep you safe. I can keep my vow to you.” Her heart swelled with his admission, with his devotion to her.

Reluctantly, Sansa nodded her head slowly. “If that is what you wish, I will make sure it happens”. Jon pulled her tightly to him once more, and kissed her so hard she felt the air leave her body. S

“One more thing, Sans” Jon said hesitantly, holding her hands within his. “In order to join the Kingsguard, I must become a knight. Even then, I can only join the Kingsguard once I prove my bravery and loyalty to the crown.” His face darkened. “To do all these things, I must leave you for a time” he finished. Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. She felt her heart sink as though she were falling off a cliff. _He said he’d never leave me. He said he’d protect me. How can he protect me if he isn’t even in King’s Landing??_ She couldn’t hide the blow he had dealt to her, how his words had wounded her. She was speechless as her hands lay limp in his. His face looked to hers, and she saw him suffering as he was. But she knew that soon Cersei would tire of Jon’s presence in King’s Landing. His days here were already numbered, and it was only a matter of time before she found a way to send him back north, or even worse, to the Wall. _How else can he stay by my side, how else can he remain here at court? There is no other way, is there?_

They both composed themselves in solemn silence, and Jon escorted her to their father, who was to present Sansa to the court as the daughter of the hand of the king. She tried to pick up the pieces of her broken heart, to compose herself before entering the court. She had to be brave. She couldn’t be a little bird, she had to be a wolf.

Her father gazed upon her in the hallway, transfixed by her. “My beautiful girl. You look like a princess” he choked out, holding back tears. “Are you sure this is what you want Sansa? Say the word and I will sit that fat king down and we will end the betrothal, stop this marriage”. Her eyes gazed upon him, and the conflict in his eyes. She knew that if he did that, King Robert would probably accept it, but she knew Cersei would not. And at the end of the day, the realm was truly ruled at this point by Cersei and the small council, which was becoming increasingly filled with Lannisters. No, they had to play the game, a game that her father was either unwilling, or unable to play.

“I’m sure father. Joffrey is my love, and I am to be his wife” the words soured on her tongue. _I have to remember how to lie better. The entire court will see right through me._ The carefully created façade built slowly upon her face as she stiffened her expression into a demure deference. _I am a wolf, I am a wolf, I am a wolf._

The heavy wood doors opened with a creak, revealing the immense throne room beyond. The throne itself was much larger than she had ever imagined, rising 10 feet into the air, from the already raised platform. Perched on the throne was King Robert, sitting over 15 feet above the court, looking rather bored at the whole affair. Beside the king stood his queen, Cersei, looking as regal as she ever had. Below them were Joffrey and Tywin Lannister, gazing upon her as she upon them. Further down the dais were Maester Pycelle, the Hound, Varys, and Lord Baelish. Sansa knew little of these men, but she knew enough to see the way that Baelish leered at her. She felt ill at ease, a wolf among lions.

 

 

\--------

 

**Jon**

 

Jon and Arya were sparring in a courtyard, hidden far from Maegor’s holdfast, near to the ocean. It was a quiet space that Tyrion had shown Jon, a place where they could be free to be themselves. Jon watched as Arya spun around, feigning an attack to his head. He smiled as he saw a twitch in her left hand, giving away her next move. He leaped out of the way as she dropped the sword into her left hand, just in time to miss an attack that was sure to land square in his chest.

“How did you know what I was going to do??” she yelled to him, breathing heavily from the exertion.

Jon smiled jovially. “You still give away your intent before you act, you need to learn to keep your next moves closer to heart.” Arya considered his words, as he walked to her, ruffled her hair, and they walked back up to the Red Keep.

As they climbed the steps, they noticed many servants clamouring about, running here and there with flagons of wine, saddles, and saddlebags. Jon stopped one, asking him what all this was for. “It’s for the royal hunt, my… my lord?” the servant answered, unsure still how to address Jon. “We have been sent to collect more supplies.” Jon groaned inwardly, _sent to collect more wine no doubt._ King Robert never failed to disappoint Jon's own expectations. Jon and Arya shared a knowing look with each other, clearly both thinking the same thing, as they often did.

“Who is holding court while the king is gone, Jon?” Arya looked confused at the prospect.

“The hand of the king always rules in stead of the king, when the king is indisposed” Jon said grinning, “would you like to see our father sitting upon that gods awful throne, dear sister?”

Arya smiled wide, eyes twinkling. “Race you there!!” and with that Arya was off, running full tilt to the castle.

By the time that Jon had caught up to Arya, she had already entered the throne room, and had snuck up through the crowd to get a better view of her father upon the iron throne. _Arya Underfoot can sneak into anywhere she wants, just like that angry, old, black tomcat._ Jon found himself standing far off, in the gallery, watching his lord father sitting on that damned throne. The throne was the cause of all these problems, the reason why his father had been called from Winterfell, the reason that Sansa would be forced to marry that monster. Jon found himself standing beside Jaime Lannister, much to his own chagrin. It wasn’t that Jon hated Jaime, he just hated what Jaime had done in the aftermath of Robert’s rebellion. _No sane man sits willingly upon that throne_ Jon thought, and yet Jaime had, after stabbing the Mad King in the back. _A coward’s way to murder a man, how befitting of the proud lion_.

Jaime looked upon Jon, who was still sweaty and disheveled from his swordplay with Arya. “Couldn’t get dressed up for the occasion could you Jon?” he drawled, smirking.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Kingswood with the king, Ser Jaime” Jon shot back.

Jaime looked at Jon with a face brimming with amusement. “I was commanded to stay behind and protect the queen.”

 _Always smirking, like he knows something I don’t._ Jon turned back to his father, who was hearing a plea from smallfolk.

There were over 40 smallfolk who had traveled all the way to King's Landing to bring their plea to court. It appeared that a group of men had taken to razing the Riverlands, raping and pillaging all in their way. Several holdfasts had been destroyed in their wake. The men who had done so had worn no sigils, and could not be identified. But it seemed obvious to Jon, and likely to all in attendance that the man who led the group was the Mountain. The Mountain was sworn to the Lannisters, and such an action could be construed as an act of war, or cowardice. _Why then was Tywin Lannister seeking to sow such carnage? Was he hoping to extend his grasp from Casterly Rock to the Neck?_ Jon had heard talk of Lord Hoster Tully falling ill. Lady Stark had no sooner began her journey back to Winterfell, before she found herself drawn instead to her father’s bedside. Jon looked back to the smallfolk, and saw a dozen rotting fish fall out of a large sack, forming a stinking pile on the floor of the throne room. Tywin Lannister was calling Jon’s father’s bluff, in the middle of this court, his piercing green eyes fixed upon Lord Stark. Jon knew in that moment that his father would meet Tywin’s challenge, something Tywin surely knew as well. Whatever plan Tywin had devised, his father was playing into it.

"I cannot give you back your homes or restore your dead to life. But perhaps I can give you justice, in the name of our king, Robert. Lord Beric Dondarrion, you shall have the command. Assemble 100 men and ride to Sir Gregor's keep. In the name of Robert of the house Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I charge you to bring the King's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane and all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him and attaint him. I strip him of all ranks, titles, of all lands, and holdings, and sentence him to Death." The court became silent following Lord Stark’s command. The pause that followed was pregnant with disbelief as Maester Pycelle, Tyrion, Littlefinger, and even Cersei sat agape. Tywin’s eyes twinkled with a cunning that concerned Jon to his core.

“He shouldn’t have done that” Jaime remarked, almost offhandedly. He looked closer at Jon, green eyes staring deep into Jon’s own grey.

"Why?" Jon shot back, meeting his stare. 

"There's no way to know who in fact is leading that group in the Riverlands. Your lord father has now made an open act of hostility against the Lannisters, without provocation." Jaime smiled wryly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say your father is trying to extend his hold on the throne." Jon's face blanched as it dawned upon him. A dangerous dance had now begun between his lord father and Tywin Lannister, and his father didn't even know that he was playing. 

“I hear you want to join the Kingsguard” Jaime said with a wry smile.

“Aye.” Jon replied gruffly, hoping he could rid himself of Jaime as soon as he could. The man knew how to get under anyone’s skin and seemed to revel in it. Jon thought back to the conversation he had had with his father, how he had begged his father to let him join the Kingsguard. Ned had told him he had to show his valour in order to join the Kingsguard. He’d have to be a knight, and prove his worth. Though Jon knew he was well skilled for battle, like his father, he never did take any joy from it. _He who passes the sentence must swing the sword._ _Why then is father not going to serve the Mountain the king’s justice himself? Does father suspect something, as I do? Are Sansa and Arya in danger?_ He couldn’t join the Kingsguard fast enough, he thought ruefully.

His thoughts were interrupted once more by the taunts of Jaime. “I like you Jon, you remind me of myself. We both want so bad to do the right thing, but love always gets in the way doesn’t it?” Jaime patted Jon on the shoulder lightly, and walked away, his white cloak flowing behind him like a banner. Jon felt as though he has been punched in the gut.

 

\---------

 

**Ned**

 

It had been a week since Robert had left on his hunt. He had claimed to Ned that he needed to clear his head. “Surrounded by Lannisters, Ned! Every time I close my eyes I see their blonde hair and their smug faces!” he had yelled out jovially as he emptied a flagon of wine. “See this boy Ned? Some sort of cousin or something to Cersei. Gods. Is there no end to you Lannisters, boy?” he looked upon the young man, who was clearly terrified of Robert. “I. I. Your Grace. That is to say. I.” the young man stammered.

“Gods, Ned, were we ever like that when we were young? We were never so meek, were we? Boy, fetch me more wine for the hunt. GO!” he bellowed. Ned felt a certain sympathy for this young man, Lancel, son of Tywin Lannister’s brother. It wasn’t that Robert hated Lancel, or the Lannisters. Ned suspected that Robert just hated Cersei, who seemed to always have a scheme up her sleeves. Cersei, who had been so intent on marrying a Targaryen prince, that when she looked upon Robert she proclaimed that that man would never lie upon her. Ned felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow over the events that had transpired over the past 20 years. When they began Robert’s rebellion, they had no end plan, they never thought of who would sit atop the iron throne. All they wanted was to avenge the North, in the name of Brandon and Rickard Stark, and all those murdered by the mad king.

 _I_ _f I could go back now, knowing what I know… Gods what good would it do though. Someone always has to sit atop that accursed throne._

Ned had been pondering a lot lately of how to sort out this mess while keeping his family safe. No matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t conceive of a way to keep everyone safe, _alive._ He knew that Robert wasn’t a good king, but if not Robert, who then? Certainly not Joffrey Baratheon. The boy had had his Hound string up the butcher boy as his own personal retribution, in the wake of Robert’s ruling at the fork. Ned suspected that Joffrey’s anger stemmed from his father’s failure to placate Joffrey. The poor boy had not died a quick death, and Ned suspected the damage done had not all been the Hound’s doing.

 _How could a monster like that come from Robert? The seed is strong…_ He thought of the babe in the brothel, of the blacksmith’s boy _. The seed is strong. Black of hair. Black of hair. Black of hair._

Cersei’s voice came clear to his head then, “ _That man will never lie upon me”._ It was as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place, revealing the final picture. The picture he saw disturbed him more than he could say.

_Could it be? Gods, how could I have been so stupid? I need to tell Robert. I need to tell Jon!_

Ned felt bile creeping up his throat as he stood up from his desk in his solar and walked as briskly as he could, without alarming anyone, to Stannis Baratheon’s chambers. His face paled to find that Stannis was not there but had fled to Dragonstone earlier that day.

Ned felt as though he were the prey, caught in a terrible trap. He next went to Renly Baratheon’s chambers, seeking someone to council. Renly appeared to be packing a large bag full of his clothing.

“Renly! What is the meaning of this? Are you heading out to join Robert on his hunt?” Ned called out to Renly from the chamber door. Renly gestured for Ned to enter and closed the door behind him.

“You haven’t heard have you, Ned?” he said quietly, a look of wild fear on his eyes. Ned couldn’t imagine that anything could be worse than what he had to share with Renly. “Ned, Robert was attacked by that boar, it ripped his stomach open. He gutted it right back, but the damage was already done. They are on their way back now, but…” his voice trailed off, but Ned knew the end of the sentence. The king was dead. _Long live King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name_.

“Why are you leaving then Renly? Don’t you want to be here for your nephew?” he asked, wondering just how much Renly knew.

Renly looked upon him, as if questioning Ned’s own motives. “You don’t know, do you? Do you? The Lannisters are planning a coup. Stannis suspects that Joffrey is not a Baratheon, but a bastard Lannister, born of incest between Cersei and Jaime. We all need to leave before we are killed, just like Robert and Jon Arryn.”

Ned felt his world crushing down from above himself. He felt as he had when he found out his brother Brandon and his father Rickard were murdered by the mad king. _Betrayed. I’ve been betrayed. I must inform the small council, I must secure the throne away from the Lannisters. Gods, I need to get Arya and Sansa away from here. What have I allowed to happen._ “Renly, you must stay and help me do what is right for the realm. We must secure the throne.”

Renly looked up, staring Ned straight in his eyes, considering him. “For whom, Ned?” Ned’s stomach flipped. He knew that his next words would define his fate. He wanted so much to offer the throne to Renly, but by rights, it belonged to Stannis. Angry, unlikable Stannis. Stannis who was sitting safe in Dragonstone. Stannis with his red priestess.

“The throne belongs to Stannis.” Ned could not lie, could not ignore the legal procession of the throne, it fell to Stannis. This wasn’t the Dance of the Dragons, this was simple math. Stannis was older than Renly.

“Ned, you are a good, honourable man. I fear that is worth little here though. I hope you make it out of here safe.” Renly placed his hand on Ned’s shoulder, and with that, he disappeared around a corner, leaving Ned alone once more.

Ned ran next to his closest friend, Jory Cassel, as fast as he could. “Jory, prepare a boat now. I don’t care how it looks, just have it ready to depart in the next hour!” he exclaimed frantically. Jory looked ready to be sick, understanding the urgency of the situation. Ned wasn’t sure if he had ever felt this type of panic before. _Jon. I must get to Jon. He will help me get Sansa and Arya to the boat._

Ned ran down the hallway to the wing in which Jon’s chambers were located. He found Jon laying upon his bed, reading an old scroll. Jon’s face became fearful as he looked upon Ned, and his disheveled state. Ned knew he must look a madman. “Jon, we must go. Now. Jory is preparing a boat as we speak. We must go now. I need you to go find Arya and Sansa and take them to the docks. I need to talk to Maester Pycelle before I go.”

“What is happening father??” Jon implored, as he stood up, and fastened his sword to his hip. His hands wrapped around the hilt, and his eyes were full of concern.

“It’s worse than I ever thought. I thought I could keep you safe, I thought you’d be safer under their eyes, that no one would ever notice. I thought that Robert could keep the peace, and you could join the Kingsguard. I never thought…” his voice trailed off.

“Father! I need to know what is happening!” Jon’s voice cut through and echoed in Ned’s ears.

“Jon. Robert is dead, or near dying. He has been gutted by a boar on his hunt. The king is dead. The Lannisters will see that Joffrey Baratheon will be crowned king. But he’s not a Baratheon. Joffrey is an abomination, born of incest between Cersei and Jaime. He would be a false king. I must ensure, the true king, by rights and law, Jon. Jon, the crown must pass to Stannis Baratheon. Not to Joffrey. We are surrounded by Lannisters.” Ned’s voice wavered as he tried to explain _quickly_ to Jon why they must leave, now. Ned saw that Jon looked incredibly distraught. 

“Father, it doesn’t matter now!” Jon exclaimed. “It’s too late, no one will believe you, I’ve told you before, here in King’s Landing the truth is not so highly regarded.”

“What would you have me do Jon? I must do what is right.” As Ned finished, he watched Jon flinch. “There isn’t time Jon, go fetch Arya and Sansa and bring them to the boat. I will stay and find Maester Pycelle, he is bound by his vows to the Citadel to pass the crown to it’s rightful heir.” Ned thought carefully of his next words. He thought of the seven kingdoms, and the reign of Robert Baratheon, first of his name. He thought of mad king Aerys, and all the Aegons. Then he thought of Stannis Baratheon, and his red priestess. He thought of that strange god, R’hllor. He’d been told that it was the lord of light, that it cast shadows to do it’s bidding. _But shadows are not creatures of the light, they are creatures of the dark. The lord of light holds no power in the North, where the old gods rule, where the Others rule. What if the right decision is actually the wrong decision?_ Ned had always prided himself on doing the right thing, but the right thing was no longer clear to him.

“One more thing, Jon, when I see you back on that boat, there is something I need to tell you, something you need to know before you say the vows of the Kingsguard.”

Ned felt the air in the room grow thick as Jon looked to him, incredulous. “Others take the Kingsguard father, gods damn this entire city, we are getting Arya and Sansa out of here today and never coming back.”

Ned stood resolute, unwavering. “I fear it will not be that simple Jon, we cannot let the Lannisters seize the throne. It must be protected for the rightful heir.” Jon braced himself, holding his own ground.

“Let the Baratheons fight for their own crown father, the North rules itself.” Ned grew angry with his son, who had never taken such a tone with him.

“Stop arguing with me Jon, you are too young to understand the ways of the world. You know nothing of what you speak!”

“Father, you know yourself that Maester Pycelle has questionable alliances, who do you honestly trust with this information? We don’t know how long we have to get Arya and Sansa out of here before the queen returns. We don’t know the whereabouts of Jaime and Tywin Lannister, and we know that Renly and Stannis have fled. Who is there left that has power to do anything here? Littlefinger? Lord Varys? Tyrion? We can’t trust any of them. Surely, we could do more from a position of strength, once we are safely back in the North.” Ned paused, considering Jon’s words. Somehow, the Tully words echoed in his mind, _Family. Duty. Honour. Family before duty,_ Ned thought. He wasn’t sure why those words had come to his mind, perhaps because he had not had the chance to see Cat while she was in King's Landing. Perhaps because she had listened to Jon, perhaps she was finally accepting that he was a part of their family, unlikely as it was. Ned faltered, no longer certain of his own convictions.

“Go get Arya and take her to the boat now Jon. I’ll go get Sansa and meet you there.” The fear in Jon’s face dissipated into determination. “I should go get Sansa father” he said, his hand settling once more at the hilt of his sword. Ned wasn’t sure what had transpired to bring Jon and Sansa so much closer than they had been in childhood, but in that moment, he was thankful. Sansa deserved to be treated with kindness and gentleness, as was her own nature. However, Ned knew that Sansa was with Cersei in that moment, and therefore likely guarded by Jaime. No matter the skill that Jon possessed, he would be no match for Jaime Lannister. “No Jon, I must go get Sansa, do not test me again. I will see you at the boat. We will talk then.”

Jon muttered something quietly under his breath, as he relented and ran off, whistling loudly for Ghost.

 

\------


	4. The Measure of a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences, unexpected as they may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me comments, good or bad!! Otherwise I have no idea if anyone is still reading! For those of you waiting for things to heat up, I promise it's coming next chapter =D

**Sansa**

 

“Little dove, I heard that you had sewn the gold embroidery onto that dress yourself”, Cersei remarked. “Such a pretty dress it was, you have such talent, and not even a woman grown yet. Tell me, how old are you now?”

Sansa bristled, she knew exactly why Cersei was asking this of her. It was not healthy for a woman to bear children before the age of 16, such births often endangered both mother and child. “I will turn 16 next moon your grace.”

“Good, good. Joff and you shall marry soon then I expect”. Sansa held her revulsion deep within. _I am a wolf, I am a wolf, I am a wolf. I will not make myself smaller for anyone or anything._

“My queen?” she asked, taking a chance, hoping for sympathy.

“Yes, little dove?” Cersei replied in a breathy fashion. “What if – what if I do not wish to marry Joffrey?” She cringed, knowing she had overstepped. “I mean – to marry him so soon. What if I wish to wait until I am older?”

Cersei faced Sansa, a look of curiousity upon her face. “I remember a time, not so long ago, when all you dreamed of was to marry Joff and be his queen. What happened to that little dove?”

Sansa stilled, she dared not say another word. Her mouth had betrayed her, the façade was threatening to break down. _I cannot trust Cersei, I cannot tell her what I feel. She cannot know that I do not love Joffrey, that he terrifies me. I must be brave._ “I do still wish to marry Joffrey, your grace, with all my heart. He is my prince, and you are my queen! I apologize your grace, I just…” 

She had to think quickly now, her precarious position was now threatened further by her own words. “I just mean to say, I am afraid your grace, of the wedding, of the night of the wedding, of – “. Her stuttering was paused by the queen, who simply raised her hand to stop Sansa. Her eyebrow raised slightly, as she leaned forward to pour wine into a goblet from a large flagon on a table between them. 

She considered Sansa for another moment, and poured another, smaller goblet for Sansa. Cersei passed the goblet to Sansa. “Drink.” She commanded, and Sansa obliged. The wine was pleasant, slightly tart and sweet. It warmed Sansa’s throat as it slid down.

“Sansa, women in this world have many duties, and few true joys. Among those duties is to lie with their husbands, on the wedding night and any night afterwards. But from that duty comes the greatest joy you will ever know, the joy of having your own babe nestled softly in your arms. I know that Joffrey can be difficult, he was always a willful child, but you will love his children all the same. Little ones with blonde hair or red hair, perhaps even the dull brown hair of the north. But you will love them all the same, and I know they will give you as much joy as they gave me.” Cersei finished her wine, setting the goblet down. Sansa thought she saw small tears forming in the corners of Cersei’s eyes, though she couldn’t tell if they were tears of joy or sadness. _Perhaps both?_

“No, Sansa. You will not have much choice in the life that has been decided for you I’m afraid. But this is not your decision, this marriage will secure the North. This marriage will serve to bond together the seven kingdoms, and heal the hurt that has been done. Whenever you think of Joffrey, think of the kingdom, and the necessity in ensuring peace and prosperity.”

Cersei sat closer to Sansa now, she pulled the goblet from Sansa’s hand, and held both of Sansa’s within hers. Cersei’s hands were cool and clammy within hers, it seemed almost as though Cersei were nervous. “Remember this though Sansa, you will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms some day, some day sooner rather than later I’m afraid, and you would do well to gain favour with Joff.” Sansa sat, considering her words. She wondered if Cersei was trying to ensure complicity within Sansa, or if she truly was trying to give Sansa advice. Either option seemed equally likely to her. 

Cersei’s hands unclasped from Sansa’s as Jaime entered the room, a look of deep concern upon his face. “We must go, now, Cersei. Events have – They have unfolded faster than we anticipated. We must leave now.”

Cersei’s face paled. She stood suddenly, rushing towards Jaime, speaking in hushed tones that Sansa could not hear. When Cersei pointed to Sansa, Jaime nodded. Sansa couldn’t help but notice that Jaime was wearing his Kingsguard armour, the white enameled scales shining in the afternoon sun. His white cloak hung limp around him, and his sword was sat firm at his hip. Cersei rushed back to Sansa, grasping her hand tightly, so hard it would surely bruise.

“You’re hurting me!” she exclaimed, unsure of what had just transpired.

“Come little dove, we must be going” Cersei gestured to the door, where three more members of the Kingsguard stood watch, ready for orders. Sansa noticed that the Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy was not present.

“Let me go, I don’t want to go, I’m scared!” Sansa cried out, as Cersei threw her into the arms of a large man with sunken, droopy eyes and a red beard.

"Ser Maryn, secure the girl, we must get to Maegor’s holdfast immediately. The Queen and Joffrey’s betrothed must be kept safe until we hear confirmation of the king’s condition.” Jaime commanded of his fellow Kingsguard.

A wave of overwhelming fear and dread overcame Sansa. She wasn’t sure what was happening, but as she stood there, Meryn Trant’s thick fingers curled around her shoulders, she wished with all her heart that Jon was there to protect her.

She looked up to see her father, Lord Eddard Stark running towards her, Ice being unsheathed from its scabbard. A pang of embarrassment rang through her that she had only thought of Jon in that moment and not her father.

“Ser Maryn, unhand my daughter this instant!” Ned commanded, his voice echoed through the halls. Sansa had never seen her father like this, imbued with all the rage of the North, as though he were one of the Kings of Winter.

“Ser Maryn, do not listen to this man!” Jaime bellowed back, unsheathing his own sword. Though it was large, it was not Valyrian steel, and was nowhere near the size of Ice. Nevertheless, her father was outnumbered, four Kingsguard to one man. Sansa wondered if Jaime Lannister was as good a swordsman as she had always been told. She hoped he wasn’t.

“Jaime. Cersei. This is the last time I say this. Unhand my daughter at once. I command you as Hand of the King” Ned said sternly, as he positioned himself facing all four men, his back safe against a wall.

Jaime smirked as he always did. “Haven’t you heard Ned? The king is dead. Long live King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name.” 

“I have heard.” Ned said gravely.

“Then surely you cannot be suggesting removing the future queen from her court? Surely you cannot be scheming to steal her away from the king?” Jaime’s eyes twinkled, as he looked then to his Kingsguard. “You hear this man, don’t you? He admits that he is attempting to commit treason! Before Robert’s body is even cold! Arrest this man!” 

Sansa screamed then, as loud as she could, fighting against the large, strong hands that held her firmly in place. “Let me go, let me go, let me go with my father!”

Ser Maryn wavered, just for a second, unsure of how to proceed.

 

 

\-----

 

**Jon**

 

Jon found himself running full tilt down the corridors of the Red Keep. He felt his heart pounding faster than he could ever remember. His breathing was laboured with his efforts as he made his way to Arya’s chambers. As he ran he hoped that Ghost had heard him whistle for him. His mind went out in a silent plea for the direwolf.

He thought of Ghost’s soft red eyes, of the way he followed all that happened, silently observing all that occurred around him. Jon thought he could feel Ghost reaching back to him. W _ishful thinking._

Jon thought of the halls he was running through, tracing the path from the entrance to the keep to Arya’s chamber. For a second, he swore he smelt fresh blood, tasted a rich, metallic flavour within his mouth. He felt the hair on his hackles bristle. 

Jon shook his head in confusion and focused once more on running.

He arrived at Arya’s chamber to find it empty. He dug through Arya’s chests of clothes to find Needle had been left behind, tucked behind a particularly ornate gown. _Her dancing lessons! She is with the Braavosi!_ Jon sent a silent thanks to the old gods for small miracles and ran to them with Needle and his own sword in hand. As he was running to them, he turned to see Ghost bounding towards him. Ghost’s red eyes appeared calm and placid, as always. However the visage was marred by his muzzle, which was covered in blood. _Human blood._ Jon knew immediately, unconsciously what it was.

“Ghost, to me” he commanded, and they bounded together to save his sister.

They came upon the courtyard in which Arya and Syrio Forel stood, surrounded by Lannister men. Both were holding wooden practice swords, while the guards brandished heavy steel swords, glinting in the sunlight. Ghost bounded forward, taking down three guards as he lunged. As soon as the guards hit the ground, Ghost went straight for their necks, ripping them to shreds. Now that the circle was broken, Jon ran forward, throwing Needle to Syrio, and the two stood back to back, with Arya in the middle. 

Jon regarded the strange Braavosi, a small unassuming man. No one would ever expect that this man was one of the most skilled swordsmen in Essos. Jon felt a smile break on his face. Though he had never killed a man, and was not eager to do so, there was nothing like the feeling of combat. The quiet serenity of a blade moving from side to side, cutting down all those opposed. “Jon, you take those three over there, I’ll take the rest” Syrio called out, in his Braavosi lilt. He turned then, gazing towards Arya.  “Arya, what do we say to the god of death?”

“Not today” she replied resolutely, a look of concern upon her face. Jon and Syrio shared a smile and went to work, cutting down the Lannister guards. Jon had only managed to cut down two before Syrio had finished off all the rest, and snuck behind the final guard, poking Needle right through his heart. _So this is water dancing_ Jon mused. 

He felt a small pang deep down at the thought that he had taken his first life today, and not a minute later his second. He had secretly hoped this day would never come. But there wasn’t time for him to dwell upon it, instead he looked back to Arya and Syrio. “We must get out of King’s Landing now, we must get to the docks!”

“We can’t go through the gates” Syrio replied. “Even the best swordsmen in all the world can’t cut through hundreds of men.”

Arya looked at Ghost, who was now licking his paws clean of the Lannister blood. “Jon, you said Ghost could sneak in and out of the Keep at will.” 

Jon paused, looked at Ghost, and smiled. “Aye, he can.”  

 

\--

 

They came upon Jory Cassel at the end of a small quay, standing in front of an old sailing vessel. Jon paused at the edge of the dock, looking back up to the Red Keep. How could he sit on a boat waiting for his father? How could he leave Sansa behind? He knew that Arya would be safe with Syrio, but he was not certain in Sansa’s safety. 

Arya had sensed his trepidation. “Jon, you can’t think of going back” she said incredulously. Jon felt the strain within his body, he felt as though he were being torn apart at the seams. His jaw set with determination.

“Jory, if we are not back within the hour, set sail for White Harbour. Do not let Arya leave that boat for any reason.” He turned quickly and began to run back towards the castle. As he ran, he heard Arya screaming at him, but he knew he could not turn back around.

Jon ran wildly through the Red Keep, trying to track his father and Sansa. Ghost ran in front, guiding his movements. Ghost stopped at the end of a long corridor, and bared his teeth, snarling viciously. Jon reached for his sword, unsheathing it. He heard his father yelling out a command, heard the sound of steel upon steel, heard Sansa screaming. He filled with dread, wanted nothing more than to run away from the sounds.

Instead, he moved forward, turning a corner. He came upon his father backed into a corner, three Kingsguard were advancing on him. Jon saw the golden locks of Jaime Lannister, saw a gash upon his father’s face, bleeding freely. Jon ran forward, hoping to catch them by surprise. Ghost lunged forward and attacked another Kingsguard who was holding Sansa, kicking and screaming. He saw his father smiling feebly at him as they locked eyes. _We can win this_ Jon thought.

He moved forward, attempting to flank the remaining men. Jon raised his sword against them, now he and his father had them surrounded. _We will win this, we will get on that boat and sail home._ Why then did his father’s expression falter? Why then did Jaime smirk at him? Why then did Ghost let out a howl of pain?

Jon turned, for a second, away from his enemies to see dozens of city guards streaming in from every corner to surround them. At the end of the hall, beady eyes fixed on him, the careful, calculating eyes of Littlefinger.

“ _Sansa_ ” was all Jon could manage to get out before the breath was knocked from his lungs as a sword hilt made contact with his chest. He looked up to see gold hair and green eyes, and that terrible smirk.

Jon next felt a fist connect with his face, but he didn’t feel the pain. Instead he felt a light floating feeling within his head. He no longer saw the world around him as it all faded away like a watercolour painting. He was aware that he was no longer standing, but unsure of how that came to pass. _Is this what it feels like to die?_ He thought dimly, as his world faded to black.

Instead, Jon found himself floating as if on a raft in a river of his own memories. He floated by his childhood, days spent sparring with Robb and Theon. Walking in the glass gardens of Winterfell, watching the winter roses bloom. Watching Bran climb the highest towers, and getting admonished by Lady Stark. He remembered sitting in a nursery, being told stories by Old Nan. He remembered the day that Rickon was born, and he had been barred from seeing the babe. He saw his old, small chambers in the most ancient portion of the castle. He dreamt of swimming in the warm pools of the godswood. He dreamt of ruffling Arya’s hair and teasing her sewing skills. Then he dreamt of his 15th nameday.

Jon had known that Lady Stark disliked him all his life, but he still thought that even she would grant him his secret wish and acknowledge his nameday that year. From that day on, he would be a man grown, and he just wanted some small token of acknowledgement that he was loved and appreciated. He had known somewhere deep down that these were the hopes of a child, but he could not help himself. So when it seemed that everyone in the castle except Arya had forgotten his nameday entirely, he found himself laying on the bed in his small, dark chambers, completely gutted. He found himself wondering if this was why bastards grow up faster. They had to, to survive.

He had heard a small, quiet knock on his chamber door. It was so faint he wasn’t even sure it was real. When he got up and opened the door, he was surprised to find Sansa standing there, her long auburn hair cascading down her shoulders. Her face had been a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment, but Jon hadn’t been sure why. He beckoned her forward into the chamber, but she shook her head. Sansa never did anything improper, after all. However, as she stood there, she bit her lip, and reached into a small pocket of her dress and pulled out a swatch of white fabric. It looked soft and luxurious to Jon.

 _“I’m sorry I forgot your nameday, Jon. Arya reminded me during our sewing lesson today. I feel terrible. I - I made you this.”_ She had thrust the fabric into Jon’s hand, biting her lip once more. Jon held it in his hand, feeling immediately that it was indeed very soft, and must have been crafted of very fine silk. He unfolded it to find a grey direwolf had been carefully embroidered into one corner.

“ _I know the tradition is for – for you to have an inverted sigil, because…”_ her voice drifted. _“But I think this suits you better, don’t you?”_ she inquired, unsure of herself.

Jon’s eyes welled with tears, but he forced them down, unwilling to allow her to see how much this small token had meant to him. “ _Thank you, Sansa_ ” he rasped, feeling a large lump forming in his throat from the efforts of trying to hold his tears inside. _“I will keep it with me always.”_

He saw her cheeks blush, and a small smile formed on her face.

She rushed forward to him, and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a quick hug and a small peck on his cheek. She pulled away as quickly as she had rushed forward. “ _I’m glad you like it Jon.”_ And with that, she ran from his chambers into the dark halls of the castle. Jon looked down at the grey handkerchief, with the black direwolf, the sigil of House Stark. His heart swelled, and he felt as though he could fly if he tried.

 

\------

 

**Sansa**

 

Sansa stood on the wooden dais, overlooking the throngs of citizens gathered to observe the trial. She had waited in dread over a month for this day, spending each day laying in bed, a captive in her own chambers. She had only been allowed to leave for supervised visits to the godswood, or to be thrown in front of Joffrey, who now sat atop the iron throne leering down at her. She had tried appealing to him for leniency for her father and for Jon, yet each word she said seemed to only infuriate Joffrey more.

Lately, she had taken to saying nothing at all when she kneeled before him, hoping he would have mercy. She had been wrong, Joffrey was incapable of mercy. When she was lucky, Tywin or Jaime Lannister would be present, and could keep Joffrey under control. When she was unlucky, she would leave the throne room with a new cut or bruise. She had become so accustomed to his unique brand of torture, that she no longer felt it. She hoped she could find that place deep inside herself today, promising herself that she would not give anyone the satisfaction of watching her cry, no matter the verdict.

Thankfully, given the importance of the occasion, both Tywin and Jaime were present on the dais, standing tall on either side of Joffrey. Beside Tywin stood both Tyrion and Cersei Lannister. Today, Joffrey _almost_ looked a king, dressed all in red and gold, a tall crown perched on his head.

_I wonder if anyone in the crowd sees the monster hidden underneath all that gold. I wonder if they care at all._

Sansa gasped as Jon and her father were brought forward to the crowd by Ser Ilyn Payne. They were thrown unceremoniously at the feet of Joffrey, both bound by old knotted ropes. It appeared that neither had been given so much as a bath in the entire month they had been imprisoned. Sansa suspected neither had even been allowed to leave their prison cells at all. She looked down at them, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks, betraying her promise.

Jon looked at her through his thick matted hair, a look of fear and apology on his face. She wanted to run to him and tell him that this was all her own fault. _How could I have been so stupid to think that we should stay here, that I could marry Joffrey and keep the peace? I am just a stupid girl, a stupid little dove, just like Cersei says._

She noticed now that Cersei was gazing upon her, a look of contempt and pity upon her face. Joffrey too, gazed at her, positively glowing. He seemed to gain strength from her pain. He stood up from the throne that had been placed upon the dais, raising his hands to quiet the crowd.

“King’s Landing! We gather here today to try two Northerners accused of treason. Before their King’s - my father’s – body was even cold, they sought to steal away my dearest betrothed, Lady Sansa, your future queen! What is the punishment for kidnapping the future queen? It surely must be death! What say you??” his eyes glimmered in delight as Sansa gasped in horror.

_He cannot mean to murder my family, that would begin a war with the North. Surely, he isn’t that cruel. Surely, he isn’t that stupid._

At that moment, Tywin Lannister edged forward slightly, and put his hand on Joffrey’s shoulder. To the crowd, it must have looked a reassuring gesture, but Sansa saw how tightly Tywin’s fingers gripped into the fabric of Joffrey’s doublet, saw the imperceptible twitch of pain in Joffrey’s eye. “Y _our grace,_ we deserve to hear the events that transpired that day, and surely, we can all understand the madness that overcomes a father who believes his daughter to be in danger.” Tywin finished, raising an eyebrow to his grandson. The crowd murmured quietly. Sansa wondered how long Tywin Lannister had planned for, rehearsed this day. 

At that moment, Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys stood forward, and recalled the events of that day. Sansa stood frozen in place, listening to a very different version of events than she recalled, a version that painted her father as a foolish man, who had acted on emotion. A man who had ordered his bastard son to follow his bidding. A man who was guilty not of treason, but of stupidity. She bit her tongue until it bled, the warm metallic liquid dripping slowly down her throat. She said a silent prayer to the old gods, the only ones who had ever listened to her. And when the farce had been completed, the crowd had begun to murmur loudly, growing ever more restless. 

As the crowd began to become more unruly, calling for the heads of her father, of Jon, of anyone and everyone, Sansa recalled the words of her father from long ago.

 _Everyone needs an enemy to blame for all that transpires_.

It was in that moment that Ser Maryn Trant walked out of the castle, dragging a small man behind him by the hair. The man’s beady eyes fixated first upon her father, then upon Sansa. She felt a chill go through her body as the grey-green eyes bore into her soul. Finally, the man’s eyes fixed upon those of Tyrion, who simply smirked back at Littlefinger, patting a knife with a dragonbone hilt that sat sheathed squarely against his hip.

Tywin stood tall and proud, grandfather of the realm, and nodded to Joffrey. “Good people of King’s Landing, this man is the true culprit. This man conspired to poison your previous hand of the king, Jon Arryn. This man played a part in the death of my father, King Robert! Should this man go unpunished, he will no doubt threaten my own life. All that has befallen us, is the fault of this man! What should his punishment be???!” Joffrey screamed out to the crowd, his eyes wild and crazy, his face contorted into a wide grin.

“DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!” the chants grew from the crowd until it became deafening. Sansa stood in amazement at how the people had been manipulated, force fed this mummer’s farce. What surprised her most though, was how much they reveled in it. It was as if watching the suffering and downfall of this lord was a source of vitality to them. In that moment Sansa learned that common folk would turn on any noble person given the chance.

Lord Baelish was thrust into the hands of Ser Ilyn Payne, who pushed him to the ground, placing his head on the chopping block. Sansa heard his weak pleas that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, that he was innocent, that the king was mistaken. She shivered, and looked away from the sight, unable to bear watching the man get beheaded. Instead, she turned to Jon and her father, then to the Lannisters. Her eyes moved to Tyrion Lannister, his dark, mismatched eyes fixed on Lord Baelish. He must have felt her gaze upon him, for he then looked towards her, lightly dipped his head in deference, and gave her a small smile. He then did the same to her father, who copied the gesture in acquiescence. Sansa did not, could not, look back to Lord Baelish. She did not see the heavy sword connect with his small neck, she did not see his body fall limp. But she heard the crowd roar in a frenzy, their bloodlust finally quenched. She felt queasy, as though she were about to faint.

Joffrey stood once more, positively vibrating with joy at what had transpired. This time, Cersei stood with him. Together they stood before the roaring crowd, Lord Baelish’s limp body spilling blood onto the ground before them. “The debt has been paid, justice has been served to the false Lord Petyr Baelish! But now mother, what will become of Ned Stark and his bastard? We cannot reward his foolish behaviour, his lack of good judgement.” Joffrey sneered at Sansa, relishing in the way she bristled at her father being called foolish.

“I have spoken with the small council your grace, and we all agree that Ned Stark must be punished for his crimes. He will be stripped of all titles and sent to the Wall to become a member of the Nightswatch. Hopefully there he will learn some good sense. And to show our mercy, and commitment to the realm, Joffrey will honour his betrothal to Sansa Stark. Together, they will reunite the realm!” Cersei finished, brimming with pride as the crowd cheering with joy at the notion of a royal wedding. Sansa felt herself reeling, she became so dizzy she could scarcely stand.

“And what of the bastard, mother?” Joffrey called out, the crowd letting loose boos and hisses. Bile began to creep up Sansa’s throat, her eyesight was no longer clear. The world was closing in on her, everyone that she held dear was about to be ripped from her fingers.

Tyrion regarded Sansa once more, watching tears stream down her cheeks, her eyes dull and unfocused. He hobbled forward, to stand before Cersei. “We have heard today, that the bastard acted on his father’s wishes, not of his own will. How can we blame a boy for following the commands of his father? Are we to judge a child by their father’s sins?” Cersei faltered, looking at Tyrion in surprise. She then looked to her father for guidance. A brief glimmer of annoyance passed by Tywin’s face, before it calmed once more. 

Tywin smiled calmly at Cersei, his eyes glinting in the midday sun. In that moment, he looked like the true king to Sansa, his serenity eclipsing Joffrey’s madness. “What is the true measure of a man? Is it his birth, his upbringing? Is a man destined to the same fate as his father, or is his fate determined by the gods, or by circumstance? I heard, once long ago that Jon Snow dreamt of becoming a knight. The knight’s vows charge a man to be loyal to the crown, to be just, and to defend the young and innocent. He has shown that he is capable of defending the young and innocent, by staying to protect his half-sister Sansa, when he could have run from the capital. Let him show us now that he is just and loyal to the crown! Let him prove to all of you here today that even a lowly bastard can become a knight!” He finished, the crowd exalting. Sansa felt a rush of relief flow through her, before she looked closer to Cersei, and then to Joffrey. It seemed to her that they were entirely too happy with this turn of events.

“Pray tell grandfather, how shall this bastard prove his worth?” Joffrey said, smiling wider still.

“It seems only fitting that in order to become a knight, Jon Snow must rid the world of another knight, the false knight Ser Gregor Clegane. The man Jon’s own father charged to be brought to justice. A man who used to be my own bannerman, but has gone rogue.” Tywin replied, his face set in stone. Cersei looked to Tyrion, then to Sansa, beaming, letting forth a giggle of laughter. 

 _This is not a kindness,_ Sansa thought, _this is a death sentence. It would have been better for them to have sent Jon to the Wall, at least he would have survived. Everyone knows that Ser Gregor is under the employ of Tywin, he will send word immediately, and Ser Gregor will expect Jon. Jon will surely be murdered by the Mountain._

Sansa looked desperately back to Jon, his face calm and unmoving. She then gazed to her father, his head hung in shame. Finally, her gaze fell once more upon Tyrion, who had been looking upon her for some time. His face looked sympathetic and angry. It felt that as though he had tried to do her family a kindness, but it had failed hideously. What if this is the last time she saw Jon? His hair matted and hanging limp around his face, his clothes dirty and half rotten, tied up on his knees before her betrothed? She wished with everything inside of her that this terrible image of her true prince would not be the last.

_Maybe this time the old gods will listen to my pleas and grant my wish._

 

 

_\--------_

 


	5. When the Walls Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned tells Catelyn (some of) his secrets, Jon and Sansa say goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abandon hope all ye who enter. Did I just finish off this chapter with nearly 3000 words of fluff/smut? Oh yeah. NSFW. Read Catelyn’s POV, but feel free to skip all of Jon’s POV if you aren’t interested in a little smut.

**Catelyn**

 

Catelyn Stark had sat in the chambers of her father, Lord Hoster Tully, listening to his weak and laboured breathing. He had not truly woken in weeks, instead laying in bed feeble and feverish. Catelyn hoped he was not in pain, hoped his fevered cries were due to his own dreams and not of physical discomfort, but she couldn’t be sure. His dreams had gotten darker this past week, and he had taken to calling out for a woman named Tansy.

Catelyn couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ bring herself to think the worst of her father, but she didn’t know what else to make of it. Her confusion only deepened when he began to call out for her sister Lysa, and tried to apologize to her as if she were her sister. However, when Catelyn had sent word to her sister, Lysa had firmly replied that would be staying in the Eyrie, that nowhere else in the realm was safe for her and her darling boy. Somehow, Catelyn hadn’t been surprised by that answer. Lysa’s relationship with their father had already been strained, and the years had done little to heal that rift.

Instead, Catelyn sat, watching ravens fly in and out of the castle from her father’s bedside. She would wipe the sweat from his brow, spoon-fed him watered porridge, and changed his chamberpot. Edmure had begged her to leave the bedside and help him to run the affairs of Riverrun, but she stood still as a sentinel, unable to leave the bedside of Hoster Tully.

Was this a reminder of her previous vigil by Bran’s side? Of her first vigil all those years ago by Jon’s side? _Am I destined to sit by the beds of all those I love and watch them die?_ She felt as though her heart had turned to stone. And so, when Lord Hoster Tully took his final shaky breath, she felt no grief. When the maester came in and proclaimed her father dead, she shed no tears. And when Edmure came in and held her, letting out his own great wheezing sobs, she stood tall and proud, only wondering what the seven gods could try her with next.

Her own apathy began to draw concern from those around her, especially the new Lord Edmure. His concern reached a head one night, when she was summoned to his solar. “Cat, I know father’s death has been hard on you. I know you are struggling, but I could not keep this news from you, you deserve to know.” 

Catelyn sighed, bracing herself inwardly. _Family, duty, honour. It’s all a test from the gods._ “Go on, Edmure.”

“Cat, something has happened at King’s Landing.”

Catelyn’s heart sprang to life at that, she hadn’t been prepared for such dark news. “Is it Sansa? Arya? Are they safe? Oh gods, gods, Edmure, tell me what has happened” she cried out loudly, unable to control her own emotion.

“Arya is safe on a boat headed to Winterfell last I heard. But – “ he paused, unsure of how to continue. “I’m so sorry Cat. I’m so sorry. Father has just passed and now you must grieve again.”

Catelyn felt  the air leave her lungs, and it would not return. She wavered in place, she knew now. Ned, her Ned. The young man that she had married in the godswood so many years ago, the man who had been a quiet mystery to her, the man she had come to love with every corner of her soul. “I need to know Edmure, is my Ned alive?” she spat out resolutely.

Edmure stood, looking at her. His expression was severe, giving away nothing to Catelyn. “Ned has been charged with treason for trying to steal Sansa out of King’s Landing and has been sentenced to join the Nightswatch.”

Catelyn could take no more. How could the gods be so cruel? How could they take her father away from her, knowing that her daughter and husband had been stolen away as well? She could not bear it anymore.

Catelyn reached her hand out to grasp a wall to steady herself. Her hand gripped the cold stone, anchoring her. She felt her fingers tighten against it, the pain from clasping it so hard comforted her. Her nails began to dig into the hard stone. She wondered briefly how it was that the stone had yielded for her. She turned slowly to gaze upon the stone and found that it had not, she had yielded instead. She felt strangely detached from her own body, unable to feel her own pain, as though she were a specter floating above her own body. Blood dripped slowly from the broken nails of her fingers as Edmure looked on at her in horror.

She looked him in the eye, and spoke quietly, each word was an effort. “You must find a way for me to see Ned on the Kingsroad.” With that, she collapsed.

 

\--

 

Catelyn set out onto the River Road with a host provided by Edmure. She had desired to travel alone, but Edmure would not allow it, and doubly so as her hand was still bandaged. The group of 40 men traveled slowly along the road towards the Crossroads Inn. Catelyn had spent much time at the inn in her childhood, and had been granted leave to clear the inn for that night, in exchange for a hefty bag of gold dragons.

 _The fewer eyes, the better_ Catelyn thought darkly. Thankfully, the Lannisters had elected to not send any of their men to escort Ned north, they knew he would do what he was told, he always did. _And it was his downfall. My poor Ned. I’ll never share my bed with him, we’ll never have another son or daughter, I’ll never hear joy in the walls of Winterfell again for the rest of my life._ She had taken the week to resign herself to her fate, and to prepare for her goodbye. She had promised herself that she would not cry, but whenever she thought of his calm face her eyes welled up with hot tears.

When they came to the inn, they saw horses already in the stables, a sure sign that her Ned was already within. She ran from her host into the doors of the inn as fast as her feet could take her. She found Ned sitting calmly in the dining hall with several other men, as well as Yoren of the Nightswatch. He looked grim, drinking slowly from a mug of ale. When he saw her, his face broke into a wide grin.

She ran into his arms, no longer caring of how she appeared, of any improprieties, or of the promises she had made to herself. All that mattered was his arms around her, the smell of leather and pine and a faint smell of musk. These were the smells of Ned Stark, the man she would love until the end of her days.

They headed up the stairs of the inn to the most well-appointed chambers in the inn. It was lush and comfortable, a fire roaring in the corner of the room. There was a massive four post bed in the other corner, covered in soft furs. They fell into each other’s arms on the bed, taking solace in each other.

He murmured words of love and apology to her, but she didn’t hear anything. All she heard was the thrum of her own heartbeat loud in her ears, all she saw was the man she loved returned to her, for just one final night. Their kisses became more passionate as the minutes passed, until desperation overtook them both. Tonight, Ned and Catelyn Stark would lie as man and wife for the last time.

 

\--

 

They lay in bed after their love-making, shadows dancing in the light of the fire. “Ned, what happened in King’s Landing? How did this all happen?”

“I trusted those I should not have trusted, I made bad decisions Cat. I should have never left Winterfell." Ned paused, thoughtfully. "I thought all I had to do was appease the Lannisters, I never thought that there would be a hundred others just as desperate for the throne.” Ned’s voice was so severe against Catelyn’s ears that she felt she could scarcely breathe. She laid there silent as he told her in hushed tones all that had transpired. 

His voice was merely a whisper in her ear, so quiet no one else could hear. He told her of the poisoning of Jon Arryn by Littlefinger, of Cersei and Jaime, of the true parentage of Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella, of who had all the reasons to push Bran from the broken tower. He told her how he suspected Cersei had conspired for Robert to die as well. He told her that Jon had been sent on a farce of a quest, how he was being sent to his death. Of how Cersei had her claws deep within Sansa, how she was holding her hostage in exchange for Ned’s silence, that there was nothing he could do to save her.

When he finished, Catelyn lay there, wide-eyed. She felt herself press her fingers into her palm, the dull ache grounded her, calmed her racing mind.  _Sansa, my Sansa, she’s alone, trapped in King’s Landing. She will be forced to marry a bastard born of incest, she will be a false queen. My poor, sweet Sansa._  Who was left in King's Landing to protect her?

She was pulled back to the present by Ned’s voice once more. “Cat, I can no longer take part in the matters of the realm. I will be a man of the Nightswatch. I do not take those vows lightly. But, before I left King’s Landing, I found out that both Renly and Stannis already know of Joffrey’s parentage. I fear they will tear each other apart fighting for the crown. We can’t allow that to happen. We must bring together the kingdoms to take down the Lannisters, and we must instill the rightful king, when the time is right.”

Catelyn thought carefully of Renly and Stannis. Renly was kind and gentle, but vain. Stannis was the opposite of his brother, hard and unyielding. Neither had the makings of a great king. Could either hold the realm in the war that will ensue?

“The rightful king, Ned? Who will have the strength to take King’s Landing from Tywin Lannister? I fear it will be gravely difficult to out-maneuver him.”

“I don’t know Cat. If nothing else, Robb must start now collecting the banners, and renewing pledges of fealty. If the worst happens, the North must be ready to protect itself. We must ensure the fealty of the Iron Islands, of the Boltons, and the Freys. Without them, we will never hold the North against all the might of the Lannisters. We must also gain the support of the south, somehow.”

Catelyn lay beside Ned quietly, contemplating all Ned had told her. “Ned” she said quietly, “We must support Renly Baratheon.”

Ned’s face flashed with anger. “No Catelyn, he is not next in line for succession. He has no claim.” 

“I know that Ned, but he would be a better king than Stannis. We must think of the stability of the realm. Stannis inspires no one, he has no army. I have heard word that Renly Baratheon has taken Margaery Tyrell to wed. Supporting Renly would gain us the support of the south.” Catelyn tried to appeal to Ned, but she knew it was in vain. And she knew that she would have to council Robb herself. She knew that she could make Robb listen to reason, even if Ned would not. This duplicity felt thick in her veins, like her blood was freezing in place. _But there is no other way._

“There is one more thing Cat, that I must tell you before we part. I need you to ensure Jon’s safety. I know you hold no love for the boy, but –“

Catelyn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Ned, haven’t we spoken enough of Jon Snow for a lifetime? I don’t want my last night with you to be an argument.”

“There will be no argument” he said sternly. “There are things I’ve never told you Cat, things you need to know. But it isn’t safe here. Just promise me, promise me you will keep Jon safe, and I promise you he will keep Sansa safe in King’s Landing. He has promised his sword to her protection.”

Catelyn’s face softened slightly as a realization dawned on her. If Jon had promised to keep her daughter safe, perhaps she could do the same for him? The idea left a bad taste on her tongue, but so much of what was to come provided her with the same feeling of unease. _And if he keeps Sansa safe, maybe it would all be worth it?_ After all these trials she had been put through, it felt like this was a chance to redeem herself to the gods. “I promise you Ned.”

Ned paused, his face was pained. It felt as though he were struggling with his own guilt. Catelyn knew better than to press him when he was like this, he would tell her when he was ready. She focused on his rough Northern features, on the grey that had begun to streak his beard. She felt the wirey hairs of his beard on her fingertips as she traced the lines of his face, trying to memorize it. So, she knew, when his eyes softened, and his jaw unclenched that he was ready. “What is it, my love?”

“Cat. I have one more thing I have to ask of you. And I hate myself that I am asking so much of you, that I have made such a mess, and you must mend it. If something should happen to me on my way to the Wall, or at the Wall, I need you to get a message to Howland Reed. All the message will say is that it is time. He will know what that means. Someday soon, very soon, when I know that Sansa and Jon are safely back in the North, I hope to tell you myself what it means.”

 

\-------

 

**Jon**

Jon had been hauled off the dais before he could speak to Sansa or even his father. He had been thrown into the bathhouse in the Red Keep. First, the women ran about with combs and scissors, trimming his beard to a respectable length. Then they got to work on the tangled mess of his hair. He yelped and growled as the women teased the mattes from his hair and sheared it down above his shoulders. Next, he saw the handmaids running this way and that, pulling his clothing from his body. While he normally would have had modesty about his state of undress among a group of women, he found himself not caring in this moment.

The thick steam of the baths permeated the air, along with the mild, fresh scent of soap. Jon hadn’t bathed in over a month, and while he was not one to relish in his appearance (though he did enjoy when women turned their heads to look at him), the second his skin hit the hot water he let out a small groan of appreciation.

He heard the sounds of women giggling amongst themselves, but could not bring himself to care. He let his body sink into the enveloping heat, softening his aching muscles. He had been tied up all day for that mummer’s farce and held hostage in that prison cell for a month. He wished nothing more than to sit in peace, letting the hot water wash away the pain of his imprisonment. He could not, would not think of the task ahead of him, not yet.

He closed his eyes, but still felt the stares upon him. He sighed and opened them once more. “Yes??” he barked out, his voice crackling with misuse.

A young woman appeared in front of him, her cheeks red as cherries. “My lord? I was sent to help get you clean. I was told that you must look presentable for your procession out of King’s Landing tomorrow” Jon groaned loudly this time. _They must truss up the pig before sending it to the spit I suppose._

He sighed once more. “I am not a lord, and I can clean myself. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

The woman wavered, uncertain. “But, but, my – umm – Jon Snow, I was sent to clean you.” She said, her cheeks flushing even deeper. She held a damp cloth in one hand, and a bar of soap in her other hand. Jon was suddenly aware of his state of undress, feeling a twitch down below. He hoped the water obscured the woman’s vision. He knew the woman could not leave until her job had been completed.

“Very well” he said, to appease the poor woman, who looked as though she were about to faint with embarrassment. She bent down, wetting the cloth in the warm water, and running the soap through it to build up suds. Jon couldn’t help but see the tops of her breasts peeking out from the collar of her dress as she bent over. He tried to avert his eyes, but each and every time his eyes returned to the sight in front of him.

He felt himself stiffen against his will as she moved her hand to his broad chest, beginning to rub the soft cloth in circles to rid him of the dirt. He felt his own cheeks redden and felt that familiar feeling of heat pooling deep down in his groin. The woman’s cheeks darkened impossibly further, as she began to reach down lower. Jon could take no more of this torture. He lifted his hand quickly to stop the woman’s ministrations, causing her to let out a small yelp. “Go tell your master that you cleaned me, I’ll finish the rest” he said gruffly, his voice darkened by his own heat. _Gods help me,_ Jon thought as he got to task scrubbing every inch of his now painfully taut body.

 

\--

 

He emerged from the bathhouse, clean and smelling of fresh pine soap. He had been dressed in black breeches, and a black jerkin. They had also given him mail and boiled leather, and a grey cloak to keep warm on his travels North. _At least they didn’t dress me entirely in black_ he mused. He had been given leave for the evening to prepare for his journey. Everyone knew that the son of Eddard Stark would not run from duty.

His body was still buzzing from the touch of the handmaid, a twinge of guilt coiled inside of him. But he had said no, he had denied the temptation. _For whatever good it does me. Deny one sin for another. Maybe my father was right, maybe I really do know nothing._ Jon found himself wandering towards the godswood, seeking the solace he could only ever find in front of a heart tree.

The night was pitch black, the moon was just a sliver. It was silent as Jon walked through the acre of godswood carrying a small torch, as only befit the hour of the wolf. Almost as if to echo the turning of the hour, Jon heard a lone wolf howl. It was a long, sorrowful howl full of melancholy. He wondered if it were Ghost or Nymeria, if somehow, they had found freedom and found each other. As far as Jon knew, Ghost had successfully fled the Red Keep. He wasn’t sure if the direwolf had gone to Arya, or to the Kingswood. He wasn’t even sure whether Arya had fled the capital safely. He could only hope.

He came to the heart tree, a great old oak with an ancient face carved into the bark. The clearing around the tree allowed for small thin rays of moonlight to peek through. As he moved forward with the torch, he gasped aloud, shocked to find Sansa curled up against the roots of the tree. She had fallen asleep, her face a vision of peace. Her long auburn hair fell around her shoulders, reminding Jon of the colour of a weirwood tree’s leaves. He walked carefully towards her, unwilling to disturb her slumber.

As he approached, she began to stir, small furrows forming in her brow. Her eyes opened slowly, bright blue eyes meeting his. A wide smile broke on her face as she stood and ran towards him. He fixed the torch into the ground and opened his arms wide to receive her. She connected hard with him, Jon finding himself swaying slightly. Her arms wound around his neck as she began to place small, desperate kisses all over his face.

“Jon, Jon, Jon. I made a prayer to the old gods that you would come tonight. I have waited all night for you. I didn’t think you could come, but I prayed for it. The gods have granted my wish!” The words tumbled from her mouth, as she continued to kiss every bit of exposed skin on her body.

She was panting by the time Jon stilled her, carding his hands through her soft hair. “Sansa, we don’t have much time. I leave early tomorrow morning, and I don’t know…” he drifted off, unwilling to admit his own doubts of this quest he had been sent on. He wasn’t a fool, he knew the true motive of this farce was for the Mountain to dispose of Jon. But what Cersei and Tywin hadn’t anticipated was that Tyrion Lannister himself had volunteered to accompany Jon, along with Joffrey’s personal guard, the brother of the Mountain. Jon still knew he has been sent on a fool’s errand, but he now thought perhaps this time, the fool could win.

“I just wanted to say goodbye to you before I go. I wanted to pray to the old gods for strength and courage, and that they would allow me to come back to you.”

“Please come back to me Jon, please come back soon. I need you here, with father gone, I don’t know what will happen to me. I don’t know if my heart can take losing you and father. I don’t think I can survive.” She was sobbing now, small, hot tears falling from her cheeks.

He reached his hands to her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry. I will come back to you, I promise you. In the sight of the old gods and the new.” He looked at her, resolute and determined. “I will always keep you safe, I will always love you. I will come back to you as soon as I can, this I promise you. And when I am back, I will never leave you again. I will protect you always.”

Then, softly, almost imperceptibly, he whispered, “from this day until my last” and her eyes open widely at his vow, marriage vows.

She echoed him, slowly, thoughtfully. “From this day until my last”. The words sounded soft as silk to Jon's ear, dripping from Sansa's lips like late summer honey. At that, Jon found himself gravitating closer still to Sansa, his arms enveloping her. His soft lips crashed against hers, desperate and hungry. He felt as though he must consume her, entranced by her soft moans. His nostrils were filled with her scent, lemon and lavender permeated into his soul, making him feel drunk.

She looked up to him, her bright blue eyes blown wide with her own desire, an echo of his own. “Please Jon” she whimpered softly. “Please, I don’t know when you’re coming home, I don’t know if…"

He grasped her face in his hands. “Shh my love, shh. Whatever you want is yours.”

“Please Jon, grant me this wish, that I could know love before you go. I don’t want my maiden’s gift to go to _him._ Please Jon, I can’t bear to think of that monster taking me against my will. I want it to be you, I want you to be mine.” She said, unable to meet his eyes, her cheeks blushing lightly.

“I _am_ yours, Sansa. Always.” He said, kissing her once more. This time he was slow and passionate, her mouth parting to let his tongue explore her. She moaned once more, and Jon could no longer restrain himself. He pulled his cloak off and let it fall to the ground, guiding Sansa to the forest floor.

“I once promised I would worship you, if you allowed me to, sweet girl. Will you let me do so now?” When she nodded, he kneeled before her, her skirts hiked up to her knees. Her hair had fallen splayed around her head, a crown of auburn, as if she were truly a queen that night. She paused, looking carefully at him. “How?” she asked, blushing once more.

Jon felt himself return the blush, he barely knew what it was he was speaking of. “I’ve heard stories about how men can give women pleasure, I wish I could give you that and more. I wish I could give you the moon and stars, but will you let me try this?” he asked, suddenly aware of his own throbbing desire. He hoped he could hold on long enough to give her what she needed in this moment. He needed to make this good for her. She deserved all the love and kindness and joy this world could offer her.

“I am yours to do with what you wish Jon” she said, smiling down at him.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Always” her smile broadened, her face a ray of warm sunlight to him. He leaned over her, kissing her as deep as he desired. He felt her lips bruising at his efforts, felt himself begin to slowly press his thickness against her. To his surprise, she keened into him, seeking him out. She moaned loudly when he moved one leg in between hers to give her more friction. His name slipped from her mouth, low and slow. He heard a deep growl escape from deep within his chest. He no longer felt in control of his own desire.

The visions he had had the first time they kissed in the godswood came back to him. Visions of her heaving chest now came to fruition in front of his eyes, and all he wanted was more. He needed to see her, all of her, now. He tried to fumble with the laces of her bodice, feeling their mutual building frustration. She moaned in protest as he broke their kiss, fumbling once more with the ties. “Cut it off” she whimpered, “please, Jon, please”. _How can I say no to her?_ He thought, smiling a devilish smile. He felt drunk on her touch, on her kisses, on her scent. Lemon and lavender, and something else? Something sweet…

He pulled a small knife from his belt, and cut her bodice open down the front, desperate to see her breasts. They spilled out from the ruined fabrics, small, but firm. Her nipples were a soft, dusky red, and she moaned loudly as his hands went down to cup them, flicking her nipples between his fingers. 

He responded in kind, moaning in appreciation. He found himself desperate to know how they tasted, to know what Sansa tasted of. He leaned over her, beginning to kiss her neck, behind her ear. First, he placed soft, chaste kisses down the line of her neck. As he lowered down her neck to her collarbone, the kisses became more insistent, more lingering, until he was sucking and biting her, leaving behind marks of his attentions. She tasted of honeysuckle, he was already addicted to the flavour. Her arms carded through his soft raven locks, reassuring him that he was indeed giving her pleasure, though her moans had also served that purpose. He groaned loudly, pushing himself against her centre, reveling in the heat that emanated from her.

He felt her hands tugging at his boiled leather. “Off” she commanded, giggling. He pulled it off as quickly as he could, dressed now in his breeches and a thin jerkin. “This too,” she tugged at the laces of his jerkin “before I steal that knife of yours and make you indecent too”.

He chuckled at her boldness, ripping the jerkin off as quick as he could. Her felt her gaze roaming upon the expanse of his chest, drinking him in. Her hands ghosted along the counters of his chest, dipping into the peaks and valleys of his abdominal muscles. He felt his body twitch into her touch, his eyes met hers once more. She looked almost feral, her hair tangled and beautifully wild, her lips red and puffy, her chest heaving.

 _She looks like a wolf. He_  could no longer resist her. His hands began to trail down her lithe body, to the base of her skirts. He pushed them up further, revealing white stockings and smallclothes. Both had been embroidered with blue thread, a pattern of winter roses upon them. “I know they’re your favourite” she said quietly, almost embarrassed of the thoughtfulness she had put into preparing for him.

“You’re perfect, so perfect” he murmured, drinking her in.

He leaned in closer, smelling her arousal now, heavy in the air. His hands moved to her smallclothes, as he untied the bows holding them in place. He paused, looking up at her, his grey eyes black in the cool of the night. “Tell me if you want me to stop sweet girl” he rasped, unsure if he could even if she wanted.

“Never stop, Jon, please” she whispered, her voice wavering with her own desire. Jon needed no more permission. He looped his thumb into the fabric and pulled it down her legs, revealing her womanhood, and a soft triangle of auburn curls covering it. His breath hitched as he looked upon her, transfixed. He felt her skin prickle with gooseflesh in the cool air, he felt her keen into his touch. He found himself leaning into her womanhood, his mouth connected with the soft skin of her mound. She moaned loudly to response to his kiss.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, unsure of himself. “So good, please don’t stop, please” she begged, her voice causing his erection to press tightly against his breeches. He wondered briefly if it would burst through the leather. He leaned down again, breathing in her scent. Sweet, but tart, like the lemoncakes she loved so much. He didn’t think he would ever be able to look at lemoncakes without becoming hard again. He groaned, desperate now to taste her. His tongue flitted down to her opening, dipping in to taste her sweetness. She cried out loudly in response, pushing herself against his face. He groaned loudly at her reaction. “Please Jon, please” she cried out “Please, I need to feel you, to love you”. 

He smiled wolfishly, “Who am I deny my lady’s wishes?” With that, he then dipped a finger within her, hoping to increase her pleasure.

She responded by fixing her hands into his curls, holding him tightly to her core. He felt her body begin to tense against him, knowing her peak must be close. He increased the fervor of his ministrations, hoping in the moment he could give her the pleasure she deserved. He slipped another finger into her core, curling upwards as his tongue worked at her nub. She cried out loudly in ecstasy, her core spasming against his fingers as she peaked. He smiled against her, placing small kisses against her womanhood. She giggled as he moved upwards, his eyes gazing into hers once more. “You are a wicked man, Jon Snow” she teased.

“I am what you make me, my lady” he returned, wiping her arousal from his face. She blushed at the movement, at her own desire.

He sensed her discomfort, and let his hand fall lightly upon her cheek, stroking it. “You are so beautiful” he rasped.

“Then take me, Jon, please, make me yours” she begged, her eyes soft and her hair wild, and her cheeks flushed red. _How could I ever deny her anything?_ He ripped at the laces of his breeches, freeing his thick length. She let out a small gasp at his actions, causing him to chuckle lightly.

“I’ve just never seen one before” she said, turning her head away in embarrassment.

Once more, he held her face in his hands, looking deep into her soul. “Say the word, and I will stop.”

“No” she said, “please don’t stop”. Her hands reached down to grasp his manhood, causing him to groan and thrust forward into her hand.

“I don’t think I can be gentle, I don’t know if I can stop myself” he groaned out.

“Then don’t” she said, stroking his length, guiding him lower. He thrust himself into her soft warmth, moaning in delight at the feeling. As he broke through her maidenhood, he saw her wince slightly in pain. He cursed his own eagerness in that moment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please tell me if I am hurting you my love. I wish you could never feel pain again.” He gasped out, willing himself to still.

She looked at him, laying above her. His strong arms held himself braced above her, she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles rippling underneath his skin. She sighed contentedly. “Love is pain, life is pain, it’s all painful and messy and imperfect, unless I’m with you Jon. When I’m with you, even the pain feels good”. Her words undid him, and he felt himself begin to rut hard into her, making her cry out in pain and ecstasy. In his mind he told himself it would just be this once, and never again.

 

\------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm sure you can tell, the story hasn't really finished, but it's reached a natural pause point. I'm going to take some time to storyboard out the rest, and updates will be likely weekly from this point on. More comments = I write faster =D


	6. Cause and Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion sees something he shouldn't have seen, Jon considers his options

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to upgrade this story to explicit, because what happened in chapter 5 will definitely happen again. I'll always give warnings before there is smut in a chapter though, so feel free to skip it, or skip to it, as it were. 
> 
> I'm struggling between keeping this Jonsa-centric and exploring this new world at large. It feels weird to only focus on Jon and Sansa and ignore all the ramifications of these changes, without it being too cheesy, so I'm just going to do my thing. Let me know how I did, any and all comments always welcome =)

**Tyrion**

 

Tyrion woke up early the morning after the trial with a feeling of unease deep in his bones. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and bent over to massage them. They were exceedingly sore this morning, but they were only going to get more sore on the road. He had been wandering the castle grounds late last night, he had even ventured into the dark godswood of the Red Keep. The events of that day had troubled him greatly, and he had never been one much inclined for sleep anyway. It had disturbed him how much trouble even his lord father had in controlling Joffrey, how close they had come to war with the North.

Not that sparing Ned’s life had ensured peace, though. In fact, Tyrion suspected that Lord Tywin had been sowing seeds of war for months now in the Riverlands. With Hoster Tully dead, and Edmure Tully the new lord Paramount of the Riverlands, with Ned Stark’s son Robb being the lord of Winterfell, and with the little lord Robert Arryn in control of the Vale, everything north of Casterly Rock was no longer secure. His father was never one to allow weakness to prosper, but his next moves were a mystery to Tyrion. One thing was certain though, and that was war. Tyrion had read all the books of the Targaryens, and those remaining from the Age of Heroes, and it had become abundantly clear to him; peace is temporary.

Then there was the poor decision that he had made at the trial, why had he volunteered to accompany Jon Snow to the Riverlands at all? _What good can a dwarf do, I can’t even properly wield a sword_. _What in seven hells possessed me to volunteer for this folly?_

It had been an impulsive decision to be sure, but any chance to leave the capital seemed opportune. It had begun to feel infested with lions, and of course nothing could ever feel as good as defying his own lord father’s commands. And he hated to admit it, but he liked the bastard boy, Jon. It was Jon who had unknowingly thwarted Petyr’s plan to frame Tyrion for the attempt on Bran’s life, though he wasn’t sure what Littlefinger’s end plan had been.

 _Power, control, the throne, just like everyone else_ Tyrion thought wryly. No matter though, his lord father would suffer no slights against the Lannister name, and once Tyrion had told Lord Tywin of Petyr’s deceit, plans had been set into motion. _How fitting that the one who bears the catspaw became the catspaw himself._

He sighed deeply, standing from his bed. He crossed the room and eyed the Valyrian steel dagger sitting on a side table. It hadn’t been Petyr Baelish who had hired that man to kill Bran, Tyrion knew now. Petyr had simply taken advantage of an opportunity, as he often did. When Lord Tywin had asked Jaime about the events that had transpired at the tourney, and his knowledge of the dagger, he had revealed that King Robert had been brandishing the knife proudly, his spoils from betting against the kingslayer. Tyrion wasn’t sure of course who then would have had access to the knife afterwards, but an alarming possibility crossed his mind. _Who else would be so clumsy and childish? Who else would almost behead the hand of the king, the key to the North?_ Tyrion shook the thought from his head.

After all the Lannisters had done to the Starks, the least Tyrion could do was to try to accompany Jon and try to talk him out of this foolhardy mission. _If Jon ran from the Riverlands to the North, no one would stop him, and doubly so with some coin from the dwarf_. He wondered if it was worth wasting his breath on though, after what he had seen last night. Tyrion pulled on his most comfortable riding leathers, and a fine gold and red doublet. He strapped the dagger into his belt and began to collect his things for the journey.

Young love was an innocent thing, something to be cherished, if it could be. There was no need to tear the shroud from Jon’s eyes yet. His mind wandered back to a time long ago, in another life. No, Tyrion would not take this away from Jon, even if he disapproved. The least Jon could do though would be to be more discreet. The godswood was not a private place, and Varys’ little birds were everywhere. Doubtless Varys would soon know all that Tyrion himself knew, if he didn’t already. The troubling question was what Varys planned on doing with that information. There was nothing Tyrion could do here in King’s Landing, but maybe he could at least help buy Jon his life in the Riverlands. _A Lannister always pays his debts._

Tyrion grabbed his bag, his supple leather riding gloves, and a heavy cloak. He fastened the cloak around himself and took a final look around his chambers. Save for the stack of books on the bedside table, they may have as well been anyone else’s chambers. They were not truly his. How long would his lord father allow him to stay at King’s Landing after this? Was he destined to be pushed from one corner of the realm to the next, at the whim of Lord Tywin? He closed the door behind him, leaving those thoughts for another day.

 

\------

 

**Sansa**

 

It had been a week since Jon and her father had left. Sansa had been unable to watch them leave the castle, it would have been too hard to watch them go. She had refused to leave her chambers for several days after, sending everyone away. Her sadness had served a dual purpose as well, as she knew the handmaidens would talk if they saw the marks that had been left on her neck, near her collarbone. She blushed deeply, thinking of what she had done, how carried away they had gotten.

Even though she knew what she was doing was wrong, a part of her delighted in the romance of it. It was as if she were good queen Alysanne, and Jon were Jaehaerys, and they were fated to be together. She knew her mother would disapprove, she knew that Joffrey would have her head if he found out. And that was another part of it, the knowledge that she would never truly be Joffrey’s, not now.

 _That may be the only good part of this whole mess_ , she thought, smiling. He may have her body, he may have sent her father to the Wall, he may use her as a hostage to bend Robb to his will, but he would never have her heart, or her maidenhead. She blushed deeper, feeling heat pool with her core once more.

She looked at herself in the mirror, running her fingers along the light remnants of bruises, smiling. It was as if she had been marked by Jon, as if she belonged to him.

 _But I do, don’t I? If we said the words, even if there is no septon, even if we are not given away by our parents, we said vows in front of a heart tree._ She wasn’t truly sure what it had meant, but in her heart, she believed that they were man and wife now. She was his, and he was hers.

Sansa dressed in a fine blue silk dress, with a high collar. She powdered the remaining marks that peeked out from the fabric and called the handmaidens in to style her hair. Joffrey didn’t like her hair down, and she couldn’t give him any excuse to mistreat her. Though she defied him inwardly, she was terrified of his wrath and very aware of her precarious position now that both father and Jon were gone. _But he’s coming back, I know he is. He will be back before I know it, I just have to be strong._ For a brief second, she felt herself envying Arya for having made it onto the boat safely, for leaving all of this behind. She sighed heavily. _No sense wondering about what-ifs._

She had lain in bed long enough, it was time to enter the lion’s den once more. Sansa glanced briefly out her window, gazing upon the streets of King’s Landing. She watched people as small as ants bustling about, living lives she would never see or understand. Then she looked to the sky, watching birds take flight.

Perhaps today, Joffrey would not have his men beat her in front of the court. Perhaps today he would take pity on her, or perhaps someone in the court would. Either way she would steel herself, she would go somewhere far away, where she could be free.

 

 

\---------

 

**Jon**

 

Jon rode atop a rather old looking courser, trotting slowly but surely along the Kingsroad. It had only been a few days that they had been on the road, but already Jon was as weary as his horse. He was weary of travel, of his own imminent death, of the Lannister guards that trailed them everywhere they went. He found himself brooding in silence most of the ride. Long quiet hours were spent thinking of his own selfishness, of how he had allowed himself to lose control, to defile and deflower Sansa. His only reprieve from his own torment was the banter between Tyrion and the Hound. While he liked Tyrion well enough - as much as you can like a Lannister - the Hound was a confusion to Jon. How could a man so strong, so fearsome, so profane, choose to be the sworn shield of _Joffrey Baratheon?_ And why had he chosen to join them?

Tyrion had told him that the Hound seemed to exist only as a shadow for his brother. The Cleganes had been elevated to a noble house by Tyrion’s grandfather, Tytos Lannister, and had remained loyal bannermen since that day. But where the Mountain seemed to only be a monster, Jon had learned that the Hound had a queer sort of moral code, despite his exterior. It was hard to glean much more than that, despite all that Jon had observed.

Tyrion had warned Jon that there were few men in Westeros who were as much a monster as the Mountain. He had told Jon not try to apprehend him, to not try to reason with him, to simply kill him. It was one thing though to kill men who had threatened Arya’s life, but it was another to march towards a man and murder him. Jon knew of the Mountain’s crimes, but Jon was not the lord Paramount, Lord Hoster Tully had been. Was it Edmure Tully now? Jon wasn’t sure, but either way he was not the one who should lay justice to the Mountain. Thinking of it left a bad taste in his mouth, as though he had bitten into a rotten peach. His stomach churned and heaved the further down the Kingsroad they traveled, he felt as though he were on a funeral march.

They decided to stop that evening in the woods outside of Harrenhal, overlooking the Isle of Faces. Old Nan had told Jon stories of the Isle of Faces when he was just a young boy. They had been stories of the Children of the Forest, of how the Isle of Faces was one of the final places in the south to still have weirwood trees. She would tell him that there, the old gods still reigned, still watched over all that happened.

Jon wondered why then so much darkness befell Harrenhal? Surely no other castle in all the realm had such a dark history. His father had told him once that he had attended a tourney there, in the year of the false spring. It didn’t seem to be a good memory though, and his father had not told him any more of it than that.

They began to set up a camp, laying out simple bedrolls and tacking the tired horses. Despite all that the Hound was, he was kind to his horse. Jon found that he had hid a bag of oats into his saddlebag and was now feeding a handful to his large, black stallion, softly stroking his mane. “What’s his name?” Jon asked.

The Hound turned from the stallion to Jon, snorted loudly, and glanced at him in contempt. “His name is Stranger, and I’d keep your distance unless you want him to bite you” he said gruffly, his voice rough as sandpaper. Jon had never looked the Hound in the face before, without his helm on. He gazed upon it, on the hideous scars that covered half his face, on the ruin of one of his ears. But what he really saw was the way that the Hound parted his hair to the left to try to cover the scars.  _If he is so sure of himself, sure of what he is, sure that he too is a monster, then why does he try to hide it?_ Jon found himself wondering how the Hound had become so scarred.

“Yeah that’s right pretty boy, get a good look” Sandor snarled, letting out a bark of a laugh. “Maybe one night soon I’ll make your face as ugly as mine.”

“I don’t think you will” Jon said, although he wasn’t sure that was the truth. “I’ve been told that you are one of the best fighters in Westeros, but I don’t think you would cut someone down without a reason.”

Sandor regarded him, then spat on the ground in front of him. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m just here to kill my brother.”

With that, he turned back to his horse, not giving Jon a chance to continue the conversation. Jon had wished to ask the Hound if he would train at the sword with him, but hadn’t even been given the chance. He resigned himself to helping Tyrion build a fire. Tyrion had not thought to bring a flint and had instead opted to cut thin strips of bark for tinder. Once a sufficient pile of tinder had been created, Jon struck his flint and a small fire sparked to life. As he fed small twigs to it and built it up, he allowed himself to enjoy the evening.

It was brisk and cool, and there were no clouds in the sky. Jon looked up to watch the stars slowly blinking to life. He felt strangely at peace, a peace he had not felt once in King’s Landing. He could smell the smells of the forest, of the pine trees and the moss. He could smell the smoke from his small fire. He could smell the scent of something else, something musky and primal. Something he hadn’t smelt in a long time but felt as familiar as his own hand.

He saw the red eyes first, then his muzzle, coated in blood from a fresh kill, his teeth glinting from the light of the fire. His heart leapt at the sight. _Ghost! You’ve returned to me boy. Maybe Old Nan’s stories weren’t so crazy, maybe you have been here all along with the old gods, waiting for me._ Jon ran towards the direwolf, who bounded forward, leaping into Jon. Jon fell to the ground, Ghost on top of him, giving him long licks with his rough tongue. Jon couldn’t help but laugh at the tickle of his tongue, and the soft nuzzles that the direwolf was giving him.

“Gods you’ve gotten big Ghost, you’re bigger than Arya now” he chuckled, ruffling the fur on the top of the wolf’s head.

Tyrion stood at a distance, amused by the sight in front of him. “If I didn’t know any better Jon, I’d say you’d just found a lost puppy.” He japed lightheartedly. Ghost looked upon him, his eyes narrowing with wariness.

“It’s okay boy, he’s one of the good ones” Jon whispered in his ear, willing the direwolf to understand him. It seemed almost as though he did.

 

\--

 

Jon and Tyrion sat around the fire, watching the dwindling flames. Ghost lay several feet away, lounging languidly, one ear listening for intruders. They had lingered there transfixed by the dancing light, passing a wineskin back and forth. The Hound had long ago retired, preferring his own company to that of Jon and Tyrion. His deep snores pierced the quiet, late evening air. The Lannister guards had chosen to camp nearby, but had refused to share a fire with them, apparently off-put by the direwolf that now resided close to Jon.

Jon felt comfort in the heat of the flames, he had never had a fireplace in his chambers at Winterfell and he relished the smoky heat it provided.

“I used to set fires in the dungeons of Casterly Rock when I was a child. I would pretend that it was dragonfire, and that I was a dragonrider.” Tyrion’s voice pulled him from his quiet contemplation.

Jon looked over at Tyrion with curiousity. “There are no more dragons.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve heard some interesting stories about dragons being born is Essos.” Tyrion’s eyes were focused on the fire entirely now, as if Jon were not even there. “A man’s height doesn’t matter when he is atop a dragon.”

Jon looked carefully at Tyrion, regarding him closely. “A man’s height doesn’t matter at all.”

Tyrion chuckled ruefully and tore his eyes from the fire. “You really don’t know anything at all do you Jon?” Jon felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, he had only been trying to give Tyrion a compliment. “To some, it’s everything there is. Just like to some, all you’ll ever be is a bastard.” Jon tried his best not to bristle at the comment, tried to tell himself that Tyrion was wrong. The nagging wouldn’t leave the back of his mind though. What would happen next, if they happen to kill the Mountain, if he survives this?

“Would they ever truly appoint me to the Kingsguard, Tyrion?” In the dark of the night, both of Tyrion’s eyes appeared dark, and the fire seemed to reflect in them, almost as if he himself were made of fire.

“No Jon, I don’t think they would. That’s why you need to leave, now, for the North. You could go right now, and I could pay for the silence of those with us. No one would ever have to know where you went.”

“I can’t leave Sansa alone in King’s Landing.” Jon said quietly. He felt Tyrion’s gaze set upon him. They both looked at the fire for a time, lost in their own thoughts. Jon glanced to Tyrion, who had begun to look closely at Jon, focusing on his features.

“You love her, don’t you?” Tyrion’s question caused Jon to pale, and he gulped down more wine to hide his discomfort. “Who?” he asked, as gruffly as he could manage, hoping it masked the waver in his voice.

“You know who, or you wouldn’t look like you do now” Tyrion chuckled.

Jon looked down at his hands, shaking, betraying him. He thought of her smile and long, soft, auburn hair. He thought of what he had done that night in the godswood, his vows, and the love he had given her. His head hung even lower with guilt. “What do you plan to do with that knowledge, Lord Tyrion?” he asked pleadingly.

“I am not Littlefinger Jon, not every piece of information needs to be used to keep people under my thumb. Sometimes I just want to understand the curiosities of the world around us.” Tyrion gestured widely to their small camp, to their small band of unlikely men.

“This isn’t a game Tyrion” Jon ground out through his teeth. “We must keep _her_ safe. Safe from your sister, from our good king.” He laughed wryly. _I can’t even say her name out loud here. I am a coward. I can’t protect her, I have failed in everything I’ve ever hoped to accomplish._ “Hasn’t she suffered enough Tyrion? The boy almost had our father beheaded in front of her eyes.”

“Yes. _Your_ lord father. The honourable Lord Stark of Winterfell.” Tyrion paused. “Hmm. Former Lord of Winterfell. Now he’s just a black brother like the rest of them.” Jon felt as though Tyrion were goading him on. 

“You would do well Jon, to learn from your father’s mistakes. You are now part of the game, and you have to play, or you will die.”

 

\--------

 


	7. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned makes plans and preparations, a dog and a wolf summit a mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most action I've ever written into anything, please let me know how I did, good or bad! 
> 
> Still on track for weekly updates as of right now. Wish I could give a final chapter estimate right now, but it turns out that Tyrion's kidnapping was a lynchpin that was undone by Jon not going to the Wall. I know that's probably obvious to a lot of you, but just how crucial it was wasn't obvious to me until I spent some time re-reading ACOK the past couple weeks. I'm not D&D, so as of right now I can't say with certainty this story will be "about 73 hours long". It'll be as long as it takes to unfurl all these stories in their new directions, or until people get bored haha. As always, just assume Dany and Faegon and Euron are doing their thing.

**Ned**

 

Ned awoke in a cold sweat from a terrible dream. It was an old dream, of a tower in Dorne, and a bloody bed. A dream of death, and broken promises. It was a dream he had nightly now, as though it were trying to tell him something. Of what, he couldn’t be sure.

They had been travelling up the King’s road for several weeks now, and the inns and holdfasts had begun to dwindle away. Sometimes they would camp just off the road, other times they would be taken in by one of the lords of the neck or the North, as they moved onwards. Along the way, Yoren had managed to collect several more recruits to the Nightswatch. All were criminals, mostly thieves or rapists. It left a bad taste in Ned’s mouth that this was what the Nightswatch had become. He hoped he could help the old bear return it to a higher station, if for no other reason than to ease the embarrassment he had now caused Cat and Robb and the entire North. His poor decisions weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

_How have I managed to fail in all my duties? As father, as husband, as brother. I have failed them all._

He vowed to himself that he would right all that had happened, that he would protect his family. This vow drove him to visit Winterfell on his way north to the Wall. No one in King’s Landing would know or care, he hoped.

They arrived at the massive gates of Winterfell shortly before nightfall, a crowd gathered in the courtyard to receive the weary group. As soon as Ned stepped through the gates, he found Arya and Rickon running forward, jumping into his arms. He held them tightly, tears forming in the corners of his dark grey eyes. For a moment, his face softened. He hadn’t been certain he would ever see his children again, hadn’t been certain that Arya had even survived her escape from King’s Landing. Ned looked down at his two children, still clutching hard at his middle, and held his arms around them once more. It felt so good to be home, even if only for a few days.

Ned leaned down slightly and mussed up both Rickon and Arya’s hair while they smiled bright, wide, almost innocent smiles back at him. He looked up then to see Bran atop the stable boy’s back, and further on to see Robb, trying as hard as he could to maintain a strong, severe façade. _He is the Lord of Winterfell now, he must be strong for all the North._ Ned rushed forward to greet each of them, holding Robb’s outstretched hand tightly, and grasping his arm forward for a warm hug.

“I never thought I’d see you again, father” Robb said softly, his voice cracking. Ned pulled back from the hug, regarding the man his son had become. He still had the Tully colouring, but his face looked stronger, more weather-worn, more noble now.

“I always knew you’d take to being a lord Robb, you’ll be better at it than I ever was.”

Robb’s face flushed slightly. “I hope in time, that I’ll become half the man that you are, father. With your guidance, I know we will hold the North no matter what happens.”

Ned tried not to let Robb’s words disquiet him. _How can we hold the North when we aren’t even the wardens of it anymore? We used to be kings, of the winter, of the North._

Ned moved onto Bran, the boy who dreamt of being a knight, the boy who climbed the tallest towers of Winterfell, the boy who never fell. It was now that Ned faltered, a single tear escaped his eyes as he looked at what Lannister greed and lies had needlessly done to his poor son. “Don’t worry father, Hodor takes me everywhere I need to go, and Tyrion Lannister sent plans up to us moons ago for a saddle that lets me ride as well.” Ned saw the sadness in Bran’s eyes, betraying his words. But he also saw strength and wisdom behind them. Somehow Bran seemed now to be older than he was, more than he was.

Ned first met with Robb, in his old solar of the chambers that he and Cat used to share. It seemed to have been years since he had sat by its warm fire, had slept in his old bed. Now, here alone together by the fire, Robb seemed younger, more unsure of himself. “Are the rumours true father? Is Joffrey Baratheon…” Robb’s voice trailed off.

“He is no child of Robert Baratheon.” Ned finished for Robb, grimly. “He has proclaimed himself king and sworn death to all those who oppose him. Over time, the small council has broken down into a group of sycophants, loyal to the Lannisters, not the crown. Renly and Stannis could overthrow the Lannisters tomorrow if they could just stop their childish bickering, but I fear that won’t happen any time soon. Even if it did, Stannis – Stannis is a hard and cautious man. He hasn’t left Dragonstone for many moons.”

Robb furrowed his brow in concentration, disturbed by what he was hearing. “Who would you have the North support, father? Renly or Stannis?”

Ned took a deep, long breath. He stood and paced towards the fire. _Who would I have the North support?_ Words passed through his weary mind, _promise me, Ned, promise me._

 _Who would be the better king? Who could ensure stability and peace in the realm?_ Even as Ned asked himself that question, he knew the answer would be neither. He still knew the rightful heir was Stannis. But, Stannis was tough and brittle. He seemed forever lost in the past and all the wrongs that had been done to him. Renly was bright and shiny as copper, but as rash and foolhardy as Robert had been. This rivalry in and of itself only served to solidify Ned’s beliefs that neither would be a good king.

“Right now, we openly support no one, we will not proclaim allegiances or fealty until Sansa and Jon are safe. We cannot allow them to be used as pawns by the crown. If they refuse to proclaim you warden of the north, there will be no warden of the north. Meet with all the Northern lords, gain their trust and respect, renew their fealty to the Starks, and ensure that there is no one else the Lannisters could elevate to warden. Then, we bide our time. We will not be goaded into making the first move, that is exactly what they want, they want an excuse to declare war.”

Robb's face darkened with exasperation. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing father, it makes us look weak. And what of the Riverlands? Do we know that Lord Edmure will wait the same as us? There have been attacks all over his lands, and their forces are already spread so thin. The longer he waits, the weaker his hold becomes.”

Ned considered his son’s words. “I have asked your mother to stay in the Riverlands for the time being. It is my hope that she will give him wise council. He has always been headstrong, but he is capable and I believe he will listen to your lady mother. Whatever happens, we cannot be the first to openly shed blood, or we will all be declared traitors of the crown. I believe that is what Tywin Lannister wants of us. In the meantime, we will quietly assemble forces at Moat Cailin, and we will instruct Lord Manderly to ship supplies from White Harbour to Moat Cailin, and we will wait.”

Robb’s face twitched with anger. “How can we wait while they hold Sansa hostage, when they have sent Jon to certain death, how can we be so craven?” his voice began to raise with anger.

Ned bristled at his son’s words. He sat uncomfortably in his chair, feeling overwhelmed by the heat from the fire and swelling rage within own gut. Plots and treachery did not sit well with him, but he had to make right what he had broken. He would not let his son see how much this affected him though, his son needed to hold fast, for the North. “That is precisely why we are going to wait, Robb. And I have sent word to Edmure to spare a few men to help Jon. I have done all that I have done for the safety of this family. That is why you will petition the crown for Sansa and Jon’s return to Winterfell, in exchange for your fealty.” Ned finished, uneasily.

“You would have me openly support a false king?” Robb said, his face twisting in disgust.

“I would have you do what is necessary to reunite our family. I would have you do what is necessary right now, knowing that we are not beholden to promises made to a false king. I would have you be smarter than I was, Robb.” Ned looked at his eldest son, hoping, begging that he would see that there was no other way. He sighed inwardly, knowing that what he had to say next would only serve to increase his son’s frustration.

“There is one more thing I must ask of you Robb. You must do everything necessary to secure allegiances, and it is high time that you married. Your mother does not trust the Freys, but she believes a marriage pact could secure their support should there be war.” Robb looked ready to voice discontent with Ned. “I will have no objection, Robb. You will council with your mother, and you will do as she bids. As lord of Winterfell, your life is no longer just your own, it belongs to each and every person, from Old Nan to the youngest babe. You no longer have the luxury to do what your heart desires.” Rob’s head hung low, his lips were pulled taut in frustration. Ned watched his son’s brows furrow, watched his resignation.

“Aye, father. I will do as you ask.”

That night, Ned dreamt he was deep below, in the crypts of Winterfell. He was there with Bran and Arya and Rickon, and they were looking at him, crying. He tried to reach out and pull them into a hug, but found he could not. He tried to speak, but he could not. And it was then that he realized they weren’t looking at him, they were looking through him. He was no longer himself, he was the stone statue that guarded his own crypt.

Ned woke up gasping for breath, feeling as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. In his bleary half-awake state, he smelt the cool, damp mildew of the crypts, and something else. Something sweet. The smell of winter roses hung heavy in the air. Ned found he could not sleep the rest of the night.

 

\-------

 

**Jon**

 

They had been wandering the Riverlands for almost two weeks, with no sight of the Mountain or any raiding party. Jon had fully expected them to rush upon him in the night, to get the upper hand through surprise, but they had not. The small group had arrived at Riverrun by the River Road two nights past, and there they had been given supplies and fresh mounts. But even more than that, Lord Edmure had filled out their small group with 20 additional men, men loyal to the Tullys and Starks. It was a small, but important gesture. It gave Jon hope.

Well for a minute it had, until he thought upon how this might mean that Lady Stark may finally be warming up to him. That only served to make him wonder how long it would be until she found out that he had deflowered her daughter, her precious Sansa.

Jon groaned outwardly. _What have I done. I’ve gone and ruined all progress I made. I will be disowned by everyone when they find out._

His shame clung to him like a heavy fur cloak in the dead of summer, suffocating the air from his lungs. The worst part for Jon though, was the realization that he’d do it again in a heartbeat, if Sansa let him. He’d happily fall into her bed, or anywhere, and take her again. He’d do anything she wished of him, anything at all. It was terrifying and exhilarating to know this hold she had on his heart, his soul. And the godswood. They had made vows. _In the godswood._ Jon didn’t know what that meant, but surely it meant something. He had told himself long ago, that he would never father a bastard, never dishonour himself or another woman like that. _But we said vows in the godswood._ Maybe they weren’t married, but that wasn’t nothing either. His heart clung onto that notion, providing him a moment’s respite from the torture of his own thoughts.

Today, they had headed out down the Red Fork, towards the holdfasts that the Mountain had destroyed. The path was not well traveled, the horses struggling along the muddy banks of the Trident. Jon led the group, with Tyrion in the rear, surrounded by Lannister guards. The Hound had taken to falling in somewhere in the middle of the pack, preferring the company of neither Jon nor Tyrion, but instead a rather gruff man from Lord Edmure’s group.

Jon preferred his position at the front, where few opted to join him. This allowed him to brood over his own thoughts, to observe the trails and paths that they were following, looking for signs of recent activity. Every so often, Ghost would come bounding through the brush, scaring all the horses behind them. Jon however, knew how to calm his old courser, scratching its mane, and giving it some carrots that he had set aside from his own rations. Ghost would walk with them for a time, until he grew bored of the monotony, and would sprint forward again. Jon found himself jealous of his direwolf, of the simplicity of his existence, and ruing the difficulty of his own. 

They were near the remains of Sherrer when Jon first smelt it. Hanging low and heavy in the air, a sick almost sweet stench engulfed them. His horse whinnied nervously. _Death. This is the smell of death and decay._ Jon found himself shivering though he was not cold. He led his horse through the burnt remains of the town, carrion crows perched all around them. They cawed loudly as the group passed through, a herald to the dead.

A twig snapped ahead. The sound of footsteps. The unmistakable sound of an arrow being cocked.

Jon whistled loudly, to let the group and Ghost know that he had heard something. He would be no good against a group alone, and they – whoever they were – they already knew he was here.

He heard the sounds of his men galloping forwards to meet him. “Ahead” he said, quietly, determinedly. The men lowered their helms, unsheathed their swords. Jon unsheathed his own sword. A sword so graciously granted to him by Jaime Lannister. He had spent days honing the blade from dullness, but it was old, and unbalanced. He couldn’t do anything to help that, and would have to make do, he supposed.

“Who goes there?” Jon called out into the smoldering remains of the town. “We have 50 men, we will cut you down if you don’t announce yourself!” he called out loudly.

“You have 30, at best, and you couldn’t even if you tried” he heard an almost jovial, sing-song voice call out from behind a thicket of trees.

“Announce yourself then, and we will find out” Jon called out, trying his hardest to be brave. In the distance, Jon heard the unmistakable sound of a windharp being plucked.

He felt Ghost first, before he saw him approach, snarling viciously. “I’m not going nowhere near a direwolf, what do you take me for?” the voice called out once more. Jon heard whispers first, then another voice call out “A direwolf? A white direwolf with red eyes?” Jon peered into the green, trying to focus on the movement of leaves and branches. _Where are they? Who are they? How do they know Ghost?_

“If it isn’t the White Wolf himself” that voice called out once more. A slight man stepped out from the shelter of the trees. His face was ragged, cheeks sunken and sallow, his hair fell limp and matted. But Jon knew he had been handsome once, moons ago, he had seen him not three moons prior. Though the man standing before him was only a shadow of the man who stood in court that day, this was indeed Lord Beric Dondarrion, the lightning lord. “It is good to finally meet you Jon, though I wish it was under better circumstances. I was sorrowed to hear that Eddard had been sent to the Wall. Can’t say I’m surprised though…” he trailed off, gesturing to the ruins around them.

“What happened here? What happened to _you?_ ”, Jon said, unable to hold his question back.

“Now that, that is a very long story, I’m afraid. Why don’t you come with us, we’ll take you to camp and tell you the tale.”

 

\--

 

Some fifty men headed out from Hollow Hill in search of the Mountain. Jon rode at the front of his mismatched group. Some had joined for revenge, some for honour, and others for duty. He felt certain the relative balance they had achieved was temporary. Even more, he felt that they were getting closer to his own demise. Lord Beric had told him that the group led by the Mountain wore no sigils, declared no allegiances, and by all accounts were acting as brigands without order from the crown. They had served their purpose exceedingly well though, having stretched Edmure’s forces out so widely as to leave Riverrun vulnerable.

Jon had seen it when he passed by but had held his tongue in deference. What could the bastard boy know of war and strategy? What could he know of maps and sums? He knew all his lord father had taught him, even more from late night conversations with Robb, more still from late nights playing Cyvasse with Tyrion. _Spread your enemy out thin, then attack their base._ The idea of doing so had been pleasurable when playing at games but made his stomach flip uncomfortably when he thought of it happening to Riverrun.

Lord Beric had told Jon that his small troop of men had been cut down by the Mountain, but they had survived by the graces of Thoros of Myr and the lord of light. Jon didn’t know this lord, didn’t know exactly of what Lord Beric spoke, but it was enough to make him wary. The group had decided they should be called the Brotherhood without Banners, that they would fight for justice in the name of Robert Baratheon.

Jon found himself wondering what justice would there be for all the dead townsfolk, what justice there is for a mother who has lost her only child? It seemed to him that they were fighting for a name and a lost cause, in the name of a dead king, with the power and blessing of some shadow god. Lord Beric had told Jon that he had been resurrected twice. He told him each time, it felt as though a part of his soul was missing, as though his memories were fading like trees into a forest.

 _Gods don’t interfere in such ways, only demons_ , Jon thought gravely, remembering stories of the Others that Old Nan had told him as a child. The thought weighed heavily on him, disturbing him beyond measure.

 

\--

 

The first thing Jon noticed was Ghost snarling at the road in front of them. He knew what it meant before he saw anything. The dread he had felt for weeks lunged up into his throat. All he could taste was bile, and he felt a cold sweat collecting on his skin. He brought his hand to the hilt of his sword and said a silent prayer. He prayed for Sansa to be safe, for Winterfell to be safe, for Arya and Bran and Rickon to be safe. Finally, he wished his father would be proud of him.

Men poured forward from all directions, storming forward from the dark woods. There were a hundred men, or near as many that it didn’t matter. Jon unsheathed his sword and barreled forward, young and headstrong, naïve and brave, seemingly determined for his own destruction. He cut down the men in front of him. He told himself that each man was one who had trapped Sansa, who had sentenced his father, a man who had killed and raped innocent women, a man who had called him bastard and pushed him to the dirt.

Each man was the culmination of all the anger and resentment that Jon held in his heart, and each man that he cut down coated his blade in more blood. It was strangely relieving to him to find that each man bled the same as the rest. When they were cut down they were all the same. It made it easier to continue.

He saw Gregor Clegane near the back, recognizing him instantly without need of a sigil. He truly was a massive man, easily double the size of Jon, covered head to toe in massive plate armour. He was far bigger than his brother, far more menacing. He was sat on a massive black warhorse, wielding a massive two-handed greatsword. Jon looked down at his small, old sword, and became convinced that he truly would die today.

It was then that Stranger galloped forward, the Hound riding astride him, helm down. “I’ve been waiting to do this all my life, don’t you fucking dare take this away from me, bastard” he barked through his helm at Jon, letting out a howl of a laugh. Jon was ashamed to admit to himself that he felt a pang of relief rush through him, compounded with his own guilt.

Watching the Hound and the Mountain duel was terrifying and exhilarating. Each passing blow was vicious enough to kill a man, each parry and thrust determined and powerful. Jon turned from the sight and began to help his brothers work at cutting down the men. He told himself once more that they were Lannister men, that he was doing his duty, that this was justice. He pushed down the nagging voice in his head that questioned him. _Blood is blood, it’s me or them._

Jon looked back to find Tyrion surrounded by his own men, unsure of whether to get involved. Even if they did get involved, for which side would they fight? Jon knew the answer to that question, for even though these men wore no sigils, they were bannermen of the Lannisters. As he saw swords being raised from their hilts, he heard Tyrion’s voice call out clearly to the men around him “Those men before you are traitors of the crown. They were proclaimed as much by your king. Are you traitors too? Will I have to tell my father of your treachery myself?” The men paused and resumed their silent watch.

Jon looked back towards the bloody scene before him. The brotherhood and Edmure’s men had made quick work of the men that had poured out from the forest. He saw Thoros of Myr atop his horse, a flaming sword in his hand. Beside him was Lord Beric, his sword also aflame. He seemed larger, darker than he had ever seemed before. The two galloped forwards, cutting down anyone in their path, and it seemed to Jon that this was less a battle, and more a slaughter. The thought made him queasy.

Edmure’s men had the Mountain surrounded, but none dared stand forward to face the Mountain directly. His horse had been injured in the battle, which led him to dismount and slit the neck of the screaming warhorse. The Hound had been knocked off his horse himself by a particularly vicious blow of the Mountain’s sword. He stumbled forward, through the circle of men. “No one touches him but me” he barked out, fast and gruff, shoulders stooped slightly in dogged determination. “He is mine to kill.”

The two brothers moved towards each other, swords ringing loudly in Jon’s ear. The Hound moved forward, parrying a cut from his brother. He landed his own cut to his brother’s side, but it didn’t even dent the thick plate armour. The next blow connected with Sandor, cutting him down, tearing through his armour. It must have nicked the skin, as bright red blood blossomed forth, staining the bright green grass below. He stumbled, falling to his knees.

Jon could not watch anymore, could not stand by and let another man fight a battle he had been tasked to fight. He whistled to Ghost first, who jumped into the circle in front of Sandor, baring his long fangs at the Mountain. The Hound stood slowly, using his sword as a crutch. His eyes were locked with his brothers through the visor of his helm, head unmoving. “Get your fucking dog and your fucking men out of my face. I told you, he’s mine to kill” he spat out at Jon, still not breaking eye contact with his brother.

Jon was incredulous. “He was going to kill you first if it weren’t for Ghost” he spat back.

“Then he would’ve killed me first.” He growled out, still staring up at his brother, resolute. 

The Mountain’s sword came down hard once more, pushing past the Hound’s own sword and landing square against his left shoulder. The blow sent him to the ground, his helm thrown out across the grass from the force of the blow. Jon saw now the sweat that coated Sandor’s face, saw the blood still dripping from his side.

“Let me at least help you, I can’t just watch you die” Jon called out once more, hearing a grunt of satisfaction from the Mountain. He knew the man was smiling under his helm. _Smiling at the thought of killing his own brother._ He saw Sandor’s face flush with embarrassment at Jon’s words, saw his lips twitch in anger. “You want to help me boy, then keep your fucking mouth shut”. Sandor moved forward, faster than the Mountain now. He was fueled by adrenaline and anger, by his own silent mission.

Sandor moved around his brother, trying to find a weak spot, only for the Mountain to move back again, controlling his movements. Sandor was faster, but his brother had a range no other human can match. Jon knew now, no matter what motivation kept the Hound’s body moving, this was a battle he could not win. He was the younger brother, the shorter brother, the weaker brother.

 _We can fight to deny our own nature, but in the end, we succumb to it,_ Jon thought, thinking of his own sins. But he could do this one thing, he could die with honour.

Jon rushed forward, sword raised towards the Mountain. The Mountain swung forward towards him, a massive blow that Jon had little strength to parry. The greatsword cut through Jon’s boiled leather and hit the mail beneath, knocking him hard to the ground. He got up quickly, running back towards the Mountain, his mind empty of plan or strategy. But as he came forward to face the Mountain, Sandor cut from the side, pushing his sword through the softer joint connecting the Mountain’s thick steel armour of his arm to his shoulder, angling just right to hit the artery. Blood spurted out from the wound, the man let out a howl of pain. He began to thrash wildly at both Jon and the Hound.

“I said get out of here, bastard, before I kill you myself” Sandor said once more, moving quickly around his brother, waiting for him to slow. Several more parries and blows came forth, each slower than the last. The massive greatsword began to droop from the Mountain’s hand. Sandor came from behind, knocking his brother to his knees, and took off his helm. He then rounded to stand over the kneeling frame of his massive brother.

“Look at me, look at me brother. I’ve always known what you were, since we were children." Sandor paused, gazing down at the beast that was his brother.

"Today, I rid this world of a monster.” His sword struck his brother’s neck, blood pouring forward, coating Sandor in his own brother’s blood. The first cut was a deadly blow but did not sever the man’s massive neck. The second blow did that job, and the Mountain’s head fell down to the ground, and rolled past Sandor’s feet. Jon felt himself pale at the sight, as the headless body fell limp to the ground, blood pouring freely from its neck. The sight was too eerily familiar to what had happened in front of him at King’s Landing. He had been granted his life that day, so why had he almost sacrificed it today? He needed to be smarter, more careful if he was to keep Sansa safe. He cursed himself inwardly for his own rashness.

“The White Wolf and the Hound, now there is a song for you Sevenstrings!” a voice called out from the crowd that had gathered to watch the two brothers battle to the death. Cheers poured forth, and several notes were plucked from a far away windharp. Jon watched as Sandor collapsed to the ground in front of his brother's corpse, and felt his own knees buckle with exhaustion. 

 

 

\---------


	8. Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn waits at the Twins, Sansa has mysterious visitors, Tyrion meets with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrr there be smut ahead. Skip the end of Sansa's section and continue again at Tyrion's if you wish to skip it ;)
> 
> Just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has commented, kudo'd, subscribed, or bookmarked this story. You guys are inspiring me to keep writing and all your suggestions have been helping me to make this story better! As always, let me know how you felt about this chapter!

**Catelyn**

Catelyn woke wearily from the bed of her chamber in the Water Tower of the Crossing. Though she was loathe to remain at the Twins for any extended period of time, the distance from Riverrun had necessitated her stay here. Her chambers were decently well appointed, and the rushes on the floor were fresh. The chambers had only the slightest hint of mildew, which was quite an accomplishment, being surrounded on both sides by the rushing waters of the Trident.

She looked out her window to gaze out at the river. Its waters ran fast, and had begun to swell up the banks of the river. It had rained more this month than she could ever remember, and all the maesters said it was a bad omen for the winter to come. Catelyn couldn’t even bring herself to think of the upcoming winter, her thoughts were so focused on their next steps, on keeping her family alive and reunited.

What she did know was that the rushing water had only solidified the need to secure the allegiance of the Frey’s in order for men of the North to cross the Trident and move southwards if it should come to war. _It will come to war though, I am sure of it now._

Catelyn had felt the shift in her bones. It had all begun with her convincing Ned to travel down south to King’s Landing to be Robert’s hand, and had been solidified the day that Ned had discovered the truth of Cersei’s three children. Catelyn remembered Cersei from her visit to Winterfell. The woman was spiteful and prideful beyond measure, and she would do anything for her children. She would happily tear apart the entire realm to secure it for Joffrey. Catelyn had been tempted to do the same, to beg Ned leave to declare Joffrey an abomination openly in order to have Sansa returned to the North. But it had become clear that Cersei was less a lion, and more a viper, ready to strike at the smallest slight. No, they would have to play this game carefully if Catelyn were ever to hold her Sansa in her arms once more.

Catelyn had met with old Walder Frey a month prior, hoping that her face would be a nostalgic reminder to him. She shouldn’t have expected that would garner her any good graces, nostalgia meant little to a man like Walder Frey. She had only been welcomed with his customary japes and snide comments. He told her she had gotten old since the last time that he had seen her, which had been a particularly difficult comment to hold her tongue at, given Walder Frey’s advanced age. Instead, she had remained tight lipped, standing before him, his eyes leering down at her from his massive black oak chair, making her wish she had a second cloak to drape around her body.

Catelyn had been sent word that Ned had visited Winterfell on his way to the Wall, and had given Robb council. It was only a week afterwards that a raven landed at Riverrun, and Robb begged leave for her to advise him on how to win the support of the Frey’s. Walder Frey was an old, prideful man. He was driven more by his own lust for his family to scramble up some imaginary ladder, than to give thought to his own coffers. The Freys held control of the Crossing, and could demand any toll they wished, guaranteeing a near endless supply of coin. However what Walder desired was power and respect, by any cost necessary. For this reason, Catelyn suspected his allegiances to be as easy to sway as a candle in the wind, unless they could secure a more noble future for House Frey.

It was hard to imagine a more noble future than the promise that one of Walder’s daughters would marry the Lord of Winterfell, the future Warden of the North. But it hadn’t been Catelyn who had suggested the match, she would have never willingly decided her son’s fate for him. Instead, it was demanded of her by old Walder, his frail hand shaking in the air as he pointed to her.

“Eh, words are wind Catelyn. I remember trying to convince your father, old Hoster to marry Edmure to one of my daughters many, many moons ago. He threw that offer back in my face. I bet you wish your father hadn’t been so quick to dismiss that now heh heh.” He chortled in his customary snide weasel-like laugh. “Let me make that offer to you once more, for the final time. One of my daughters, for your son Robb. They must marry with the next two moons, so I know you won’t throw this promise away too.”

Catelyn had been thankful that Ned had prepared their son for the idea of marriage before she had, for when she sent back a raven suggesting the match Robb had immediately agreed. Still though, it was one thing to agree to a marriage, it was another to watch that marriage coalesce and become real. And old Walder had given her no indication of which daughter Robb was to marry, a fact that had not been lost on Robb. She hoped that her son had become the man that he needed to be, that he could truly marry a woman he had never met, for the good of the family, of the North. She hoped that Ned’s words would keep him true. She hoped it was all enough.

It was when she received the raven from Robb agreeing to the match that she began her journey to the Twins, hoping that her presence could help ease tensions in some way. The wedding would now happen within the fortnight, and with that Catelyn hoped the North could remain connected with the Riverlands through the Crossing. She had begged Edmure not to leave Riverrun for the wedding, though she knew that would be perceived as a slight to Walder Frey. It was imperative for him to remain near Riverrun, should the Lannisters attack. However, Edmure would hear none of her council, and would no doubt be leaving the safety of Riverrun behind any day now.

She washed her face of sleep in a shallow washbasin and changed out of her nightrail. In Winterfell, she had had handmaidens to help her dress, to help her style her hair. Here, such comforts did not exist. She settled on a simple dress in Tully blue, and let her hair fall straight over her shoulders. She tried to ignore the grey hairs that had begun to peek from behind the rich auburn colour. It was an uncomfortable reminder of her growing age, and she still hoped, beyond all hope, that her last night with Ned had led her womb to quicken. Despite all the sadness that had befallen them, a young babe could help to soothe some of her suffering. But it was still too soon to tell.

Catelyn sat in front of her looking glass, looking upon her reflection. She saw the exhaustion on her face, leaving dark bags under her eyes. New wrinkles had grown in the corners of her eyes and mouth.

 _I am not a vain woman, but if this is what growing older means, I’m not sure I want it._ It had long been her wish to grow old at Winterfell with Ned, to slowly teach Robb and help him grow into the Lord he was forced to be. But none of that would now come to pass, and it broke Catelyn’s heart. 

Her suffering was only compounded by Sansa’s imprisonment at King’s Landing. Ned had assured her that Jon would be there to protect her, but she still could not bring herself to fully trust Jon. And besides that, Jon was now in the Riverlands on some gods awful quest to murder Ser Gregor Clegane. Ned had begged her to help Jon, and in her weakness, she had acquiesced. Ned had told her at the Crossroads Inn to make sure that Jon was kept safe, that there were things that she didn't know, couldn't understand. He had told her that soon she would understand everything, but in the meantime she must let go of all her prejudices against him. 

Catelyn had instructed Edmure to give Jon 20 good men on his journey to kill the Mountain. It had been hard to convince him of the necessity, harder still for her to smile outwardly as she stood in the back of the feast hall, watching the bastard boy dining with Tully men. But she had made a promise to her husband, and Jon had made a promise to protect her Sansa from harm. Her mind told her the bastard boy was no threat to the Starks, or to the Tully’s, and her heart – well she could learn to ignore it if she must.

 

\---------

 

 

**Sansa**

 

It had been four weeks since she had been abandoned. Four weeks since her last good night of sleep. Four weeks since she had known love, given love. Four weeks since her heart had felt fuller than ever before.

Sansa was bursting at the seams and collapsing from within. She was covered in bruises and cuts, but nothing hurt as much as her heart. Joffrey had taken to telling her that he would have Jon killed on the road, have her father’s head on a pike sent to her. His words invaded her dreams until all she saw were heads on pikes, set in neat rows on the parapets of the Red Keep. He had aimed to defeat her, she knew. From that she drew her only solace; each and every word, each and every cut made her stronger, smarter, more careful.

_One day it will be your head on a pike, dear Joff. One day it will be your blood on my hands._

It began with a small act of defiance. He wanted her to wear the green dress with gold embroidery. She wore the blue one instead. He had Ser Maryn Trant hit her with the side of his sword for it. She found power in the sting of Ser Maryn’s sword against the backs of her thighs, knowing how easy it was to get under his skin. She felt great bruises begin to form instantly from the force of his blow.

The next day Joff had wanted her to wear her hair up in braids and twists, like his lady mother. She wore it down, plain and wavy. He beat her himself for that. She relished in his weak punch to her gut, felt a smile curl upwards despite her attempts to hold it back. It was the last thing she did before she lost consciousness. What he did next, she was blissfully unaware of, and it was a welcome relief.

 

\--

 

She awoke in her bed, groggy and disoriented, hearing whispers in the distance. Her chamber door was open, voices were drifting in from the corridor. She tried to focus on the sounds, tried to calm the ache in her head from the blow.

A woman’s voice. Shrill and angry. “So what if she wishes for her own destruction? What concern is it to us? All we need is a bride and a bedding and an heir.”

A man’s voice. Quiet, but determined. “How can you let him do this to his betrothed? To a woman barely even grown, to a Stark? How can you let him be so stupid and so cruel?”

The woman’s voice faltered. “It’s not as though I encourage it. The boy is willful. He doesn’t listen.”

“He is spoiled Cersei. You spoiled him, you babied him, you ruined him. He is weak and foolish and so very quick to anger.”

“I suppose you hold no blame then, yes? It’s all my fault, right?” She scoffs, Sansa hears the slurping of wine.

“Gods, Cersei, it’s not even breakfast. What is becoming of you?”

“I am what you made me. I wish you never would have given up the throne, you never should have – “

“It was not mine to take or give, how many times must I tell you?” the man sounds exasperated now.

“Whatever happens now, happens because of what you did that day.”

“Now that is true, sister. And I’ll regret it every day for the rest of my life.” The man released a heavy sigh. “Don’t we have more pressing concerns though, with Renly’s camp baring down on King’s Landing? I’ve been told he is marching up the Rose Road as we speak. With Stannis so close at Dragonstone… Well, we must prepare for the worst. We must get you to the safety of Casterly Rock.”

“I will not leave our son, and neither will you. We will stay and protect our throne.” The woman sounds indignant, almost childish.

The man sighs loudly once more, she hears shushed heated words exchanged, what they are Sansa can no longer be sure. She hears the sounds of fabric brushing against rough stone wall, fabric ripping. She hears heavy breathing, and quiet mewling. She wonders if she is dreaming, if she has been given milk of the poppy, if she heard what she thought she heard. She finds herself immobile, transfixed, a statue made of flesh. She falls asleep without even realizing it, falling into a dreamless slumber.

 

\--

 

It was evening when she woke again, the sun had crept low in the sky. She laid there in a haze. _I must have been given milk of the poppy. But I must focus, on something. Something that I heard earlier._ Her mind tried to grasp at memories she didn’t have, tried to fill in the blanks of the day, but it was no use.

She heard a knock at the door, and a large servant hobbled in carrying a dinner tray. He closed the door behind him, and began to scuttle towards a table, to set the tray down. He smelled of freshly baked bread, of beef stew, and something else? Sansa felt a fear in her chest, realizing suddenly that she was alone in her chambers with a man. She was weak and hurt, she was vulnerable.

The man seemed to sense her discomfort and scuttled closer to her, taking a hood from his head. Sansa gasped to see Lord Varys, she had not recognized him at all in his garb.

“Forgive me child, an old mummer’s trick. I wished to speak with you alone, away from prying eyes and ears.” He said, looking at her kindly. “This was the work of Joffrey wasn’t it, sweetling?”

Sansa looked down, unable to meet his eyes. She was afraid to be honest with this man, but also afraid to lie to him. She also felt so vulnerable, laying here, weary from her injuries and from the poppy. “What do you wish from me Lord Varys?”

“Only the truth, child. Whatever happens next, I will try to protect you. Innocents should never suffer.” His voice was soft and kind. _Mummers can sound however they want to sound, look however they want to look,_ a voice told her.

She braced herself as best she could. “I’m not innocent.”

Varys studied her closely. “Innocence is such a fragile thing, given and taken so easily, so quickly. Its fragility is why it must be protected at all costs.” Sansa was no longer sure what they were talking about, but she knew that he couldn’t be trusted. “How much do you wish to be queen, sweetling?”

“I just want to go home, I just want to be with my family. I will do what the crown requires of me, but -” , Varys raised his hand for Sansa to quiet. “Family is a strange thing, isn’t it, Sansa? We think we know what it means, what if feels like to be loved unconditionally, only to have it taken away from us quicker than we ever thought possible. Yet, it’s all we crave and desire, isn’t it?” Varys looked silently upon her, waiting for her to respond. Sansa tried desperately to call forth her mask of deference for protection, but it would not come. She settled for silence instead.

“Tell me, Sansa, why do you continue to defy him? Why not just do what you’re told and make your life easier?”

Sansa stiffened, she had not prepared for this question. She knew what she was doing was doing her no favours, yet she felt compelled to continue, reveled in watching Joffrey flail. The Hound had told her something similar before, but what do dogs know of freedom? Sansa said nothing though, she would not let Varys know how much she had truly defied Joffrey’s will. Varys seemed to smile then, a flicker of light passed by his eyes, the flicker of a candle, or a spark from her chamber’s fire. “I think I see it now, sweet child. You may look a Tully, you may sing like a bird, but you have the heart of a wolf, and wolves cannot be tamed.”

He stood, gathered his hood back up over his head. He stretched tall, then stooped back over and hobbled to the door. He looked back before opening the door. “I promise you, sweetling, you will not marry Joffrey if you do not wish it.” He opened the door and scuttled down the hallway with all the silence of a servant wishing to be neither seen nor heard.

 

\--

 

It was on the fifty-sixth day apart from Jon that she saw the gates to the Red Keep open. She saw the Lannister guards first, with Tyrion Lannister encircled by them. At the back was a black horse, trotting along leisurely with her Jon atop it. It was the wild mess of raven curls that convinced her. She felt her heart pull towards him, felt her feet take her from her chambers down to the gates. It was her head that stopped her beside the procession, stopped her from running to his arms, kissing every inch of his face and body.

He made eye contact with her as soon as he dismounted. When he looked upon her bruised face, his eyes were cold and sad, and filled with a darkness she had never seen in him. He walked to her, the strain evident in his fists. He pulled her in for a quick hug, she relented and softened into it. She felt his breath hot in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “Tonight. I’ll come to you.” He whispered quietly, but deliberately. She felt her knees weaken at the thought.

He came at the hour of the wolf, as she knew he would. He came in through the window of her chamber, however, which was a surprise to her. When she gasped at his entrance, he chuckled softly, and held her tightly to his body, relishing in the feel of their intertwined arms. “I couldn’t risk being seen, there are guards posted everywhere by your chamber.”

She smiled wryly at him, alone, in her chamber. “I couldn’t imagine why that would be the case. Perhaps they think a gallant knight will climb in my window and steal me away?” She giggled softly, knowing they must be quiet. He grabbed her suddenly around the waist, kissing her deeper than he ever had before. She softened into his touch, letting his hands roam her curves.

“Why must you taunt him and tease him? You know it only makes him punish you more.” His hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the outline of a yellowing bruise. “I hate seeing you like this. I hate that I have failed in my duty to protect you.” His voice caught in his throat, the sound breaking her heart.

“I find sometimes, I can’t stop myself. I see his wormy lips, his self-satisfied smile, and I _cannot_ give in to his demands. I will not give him the satisfaction. But that means his punishments are mine own to bear, they are the fault of no one but Joffrey and myself, I suppose.” Sansa reached up to cup his face in her hands, planting a kiss upon his lips.

“I mean it you know, you are my knight, you have protected me from far far worse.” She looked into his eyes, dark and grey and mysterious as a summer storm. She found him tracing the outlines of each bruise visible over her dress.

Wordlessly, he loosened the laces of her bodice, and she shrugged the fabric from her body. She felt him lean down to kiss each mark below her neck, found herself straining into the touch of his lips. His fingers continued their journey, mapping each mark on her body. Sansa felt her hands move forward to hold his soft curls against her, relishing in the feel of his lips against her skin. A small mewl escaped from her lips as he moved lower down, kissing the swell of her breasts.

It was her now who found herself tearing at the laces of her dress behind her, desperately wishing for freedom from it’s tight boning and constricting fabric. She was desperate for the feeling of Jon’s skin against hers. She felt his smile against the crook of her neck, felt his warm breath skate up her neck, felt his lips ghost over her ear. “Do you want me to help you out of your dress, sweet girl?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, his voice warm and sweet as mulled wine.

“Please” she whispered back, eyes closing, head arching backwards to give him permission. He tore the laces of the dress as he pulled the dress down off her body, the fabric pooling at their feet. He tore next at her shift, until she stood before him in just her smallclothes and nothing else.

She felt his eyes roaming her body. Once upon a time, the idea would have disquieted her. Now it thrilled her, to know that she could leave him so enraptured. She leaned forward into his body, relishing the feel of her bare skin against his jerkin, his breeches. He smiled at her once more. A smile of joy and desire, of love. Sansa wanted to only ever see that smile on his face, she wished she could take all his pain away from him.

“I heard some of the Lannister men talking about you in the halls this evening.” She said coyly, as she began to unlace his black jerkin, pulling it off his body.

“Oh?” His tone was of amusement, but with a tinge of frustration underneath.

“They called you the White Wolf. They said you slew the Mountain, that you have no fear.” She smiled, kissing his neck, working her fingers down to his breeches. He groaned loudly with desire and frustration. Sansa loved the power she had over him in this moment and decided to play this game a little further.

“I thought it strange that you should be called the White Wolf when you’re dressed all in black, but we can’t help the names we’re given can we now?”

He groaned louder as she began to tug down his breeches, revealing his manhood to her.

“And the song they were singing, it was quite the song. Have you heard it my wolf?” She asked, leaning in to let her hands roam his chest underneath his tunic, before lifting it over his head. This time he moaned loudly, grabbing her around the waist tightly.

“I have, and I’d thank you not to repeat it” he said gruffly, his voice thick and gravelly with his desire and mounting frustration.

“The song they sing, it says the White Wolf has a very big _appetite_. What say you to that?” She moaned now, loudly, as he bit into the flesh of her neck, sucking deeply, marking her.

“Only for you, Sansa” he said softly into her ear. “We must be quiet, my love.”

“It’s been too long without you Jon, I need you now.” Her voice was strained with desire, as she took his length in her hand, relishing in the feel of it.

“I do as my lady commands” he said smiling devilishly, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to the large bed. He laid her onto the furs, his dark eyes gazing into hers, filled with love and lust. “I love you Sansa” he said softly, as he brushed his hand down the side of her cheek.

She sighed happily and leaned into his touch. “I love you too Jon.”

He laid down beside her, running his fingers along the edges of her smallclothes, eliciting mewls of desire from her. “Take them off, please” she begged.

“As my lady commands” he said once more, ripping her smallclothes from her body in one motion, leaving her gasping. “What else does my lady command of me?”

“Touch me, please. Love me, please. I can’t wait any longer” she cried out softly, grabbing his hand and bringing it to the slick wetness of her mound. His fingers slipped inside her causing her to moan loudly, pulling his head in for a long kiss. His tongue intertwined with hers as she bucked up into his touch, pulling him over her. She could feel his length pushing against her leg, so close to her. Yet, he would not enter her, not yet, not until she commanded it.

“Please Jon, please, I need you inside me” she cried out into his ear, grinding against his fingers in frustration, begging for release.

“Who am I to deny my lady what she requests?” She felt his lips curl into a smile as his tongue danced back into her mouth. In that moment, his other hand guided his cock to her entrance, and he entered her in a single fluid motion. She couldn’t help the loud moan that escaped her at the feeling of being so utterly filled and sated. He began to move within her, causing her to cry out in pleasure once more.

“Shh” he whispered, his hand coming up to cover her mouth. The thrill of knowing there were guards just feet away, of knowing they would both be killed if they were caught, of knowing she was defying her king was too much to handle. She felt herself lose control as she looked into his eyes, seeing he was as affected as her. His eyes were near black now, his face strained with pleasure. One hand braced himself above her, while another slowly moved through the curls of her mound to that sweet spot she had so enjoyed him touching.

He had only begun to lightly caress it when she felt her body lose control, felt herself begin to peak. She felt her body spasm around his length, tightening around it. She vaguely saw him lost in his own rapture as he peaked with her, filling her. She knew she shouldn’t allow that, she knew they were being stupid and reckless, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. He settled beside her, his arms holding her tight to his body. They stayed that way for some time, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

 

\-------

 

**Tyrion**

 

Tyrion had no sooner arrived back at King’s Landing than he had received word from his lord father that he was to go meet with him at once. _Forever at the beck and call of bigger and better men_ , he thought ruefully. He had planned to make a stop at a brothel or two, it had been two moons since he had last had a woman’s touch. That would have to wait, now.

He went back to the desolate chambers that he had left, no less desolate now that he had returned. He glanced at the stack of books on his bedside table. Books of conquerors and kings, of dragons and mammoths. He threw them across the room in an anger that had appeared from nowhere. He wasn’t a conqueror or a king, he would never see a dragon or a mammoth. He was a dwarf, who did nothing but drink and whore, and spend his lord father’s money. He had truly done nothing to help Jon, he had been no use, no help. He was of no use to anyone, save to pad the coffers of a brothelkeeper. _Gods know what my father wants of me now._

He entered his lord father’s chambers still in a dark mood, which seemed to be a source of amusement for Lord Tywin. “I see you survived your folly of accompanying the Stark bastard on his little journey”, his voice full of mirth.

“Tell me father, while I was away did you wish for me to survive, or did you wish for something else?” Tyrion countered, eyeing his father impatiently.

“What we wish for we often do not get, but I’m sure you know that by know Tyrion. As it happens, I need you here in King’s Landing. You see, Renly has a large host marching up the Rose Road. He has married the Tyrell girl, securing the strength of Highgarden and the entire Reach. More than that, with the Mountain and his men dead, Edmure will soon secure his land once more. I never thought that the bastard would succeed, never truly thought that he could kill Ser Gregor. I had thought you would see to that.” Tywin scowled in anger, the gears in his mind working through the situation. “I would have thought that you would have seen how imperative it would be for the bastard boy to fail at his mission.”

“I’m sorry we all disappointed you father. Truthfully though, it wasn’t Jon who defeated Ser Gregor, it was his brother, Sandor.” His lord father looked angry at that notion.

“What of Sandor now? Where is he?”

“He stayed behind, with a group of men that call themselves the Brotherhood without Banners. It is led by that fire priest Thoros, and Lord Beric.” That caused Tywin’s face to furrow in confusion. “Ser Gregor told me he killed Lord Beric himself.”

Tyrion looked down now, hesitant to tell his father what he had seen himself. Was this something his father should know, or was this something he should hold for himself? “Ser Gregor must have lied.” He decided that until he knew more of how Lord Beric and this lord of light, that he would hold his tongue. His father looked at him now, eyes piercing into his soul.

“It makes no matter, either way Casterly Rock is now in a precarious position. It is still unclear whether Renly plans to attack Casterly Rock or King's Landing first, so both must be fortified and ready. I would stay here myself, and send Jaime in my stead, but he refuses to leave his sister’s side. He claims that should Renly decide to attack King’s Landing he must be here to lead the attack. Either way, one of us must be here, and one of us must be there.” Tyrion looked at him, understanding that Tywin meant that only himself and Jaime could be trusted to protect land.

“And why must I remain here then father?” he asked wearily.

“You are my son, you will give guidance as hand of the king while I am away.” He paused. “I would give the position to Jaime, but Maester Pycelle has informed me that a whitecloak cannot be hand.” Tyrion smiled at the admission. There was the catch, the truth of the matter.

“And what of Kevan, father? Surely he must be more qualified.” _Because he is not a dwarf, not a disappointment to you_ , thought Tyrion, darkly.

Tywin looked briefly annoyed. “I have asked him to join me at Casterly Rock, to aid in defending the Westerlands against attack from the Riverlands or from Renly Baratheon. I will need his command if we are to succeed on both fronts” Tyrion considered his father’s words for a moment. _You mean, you asked him, and he denied you as well. I am your last option._

“Very well father, I will do as you have bid of me, you know I am but a dutiful son.” Tyrion said, chuckling.

“This is not a jape Tyrion. We know that Edmure is half the man that his father was, but Robb Stark has allied with him. He has the entire forces of the Riverlands, the Neck, and the North at his disposal, should he require it. Even worse, Robb Stark has heeded council from his mother and plans to secure the Freys through marriage. There is only so much I can do to sway the loyalties of the lesser lords while I am here in King’s Landing. Perhaps if I am close by, at Casterly Rock I can set better plans into motion.”

Tywin paused, collecting his thoughts. “Even if that comes to pass, Renly Baratheon has garnered the support of the Stormlands, as well as Highgarden and the Reach by marrying that Tyrell girl. Should Renly and Robb decide to ally and oppose the throne, what does that leave us, Tyrion? And what of Stannis? I don't believe him to be a threat, but if he were to ally with Renly... No, you will stay here, you will keep that little terror in line, you will keep that sister of yours in line, and you will maintain the crown. You will ensure no further slights against the North as long as you are here, we cannot have war now, not yet, not until Renly has been disposed of. Your brother will strengthen the forces at the walls of King’s Landing, and be ready for attack. You both will hold what I given you, all that I have sacrificed for you. Can you do that Tyrion??” His voice began to shake with anger.

Tyrion looked upon his father. _What have you given up father? What do you know truly of sacrifice? What good is a crown when it sits upon a foolish boy’s head?_

“Aye, father, I will do as you ask, for our family.” Tyrion said, forcing deference in his voice. Tyrion had always been an excellent Cyvasse player, but as he pictured his family, surrounded on all sides by enemies, it seemed impossible that they could fight and win a war on all fronts. “What will you do with Robb Stark and the North, father? It seems that whomever the North allies with will make a formidable enemy.” Tyrion liked Jon Snow, and he didn't so much mind the Starks, unyielding and unfriendly as they were. But it seemed to Tyrion that they were the weakest force, one held together by a 19 year old boy, and he could not sit by and watch his own family's destruction.  

“Robb Stark is a green boy, untested in battle, whose power lies only in the words and reputation of his father. Though his father is alive, Ned’s new position at the Wall weakens the Northern houses’ trust in him. The longer we deny Robb the position of Warden of the North, the more restless the other houses will become. Should we offer that position to another lord, well, that may serve to weaken his hold even further. One boy with a direwolf cannot hold the North alone, especially if war were to break out.” Tywin’s eyes glimmered as his plan was revealed to Tyrion.

“Who, perchance father, would we offer such a prestigious position as Warden of the North to?” Tyrion asked.

“That is for me to know, Tyrion, and no one else. Besides, the Northern houses will need a push to abandon the Starks, one that we will have to give them.” Tywin paused, considering Tyrion. His eyes seemed to look into Tyrion’s soul, poisoning his very core.

“One more thing, Tyrion. You will not disgrace this family further. You will no longer visit brothels here in King’s Landing. I will not have it said that the Hand of the King has a penchant for whores, especially given your _history_.” His father turned briskly away from him, and gazed out a window, signaling the conversation was over. Tyrion felt his hands clench into tight fists as anger raged up within his body. 

That night, Tyrion drank more than his fill of wine, and headed down the streets of King’s Landing. It was easy to sneak out after dark, easier still when one is a dwarf. There were passages in the dungeons of the Red Keep, he had found them when he had gone looking for the dragon skulls. They were ideal for a man who was in pursuit of darker pleasures, and Tyrion felt very dark that night. He found himself in front of a particularly fine brothel and smiled widely as he walked through its doors. _No more brothels, father, after tonight that is._  

 

\------


	9. Unification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran hosts the Harvest Feast at Winterfell, Robb travels to the Twins for his wedding, Ned is adjusting to his new life at the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm expanding POVs, but I want to assure all of you this is still Jonsa, and there will be Jonsa plot moving forward at least every other chapter, and above all everything that happens is essential to getting to my ending so please bear with me =)

**Bran**

 

Bran found himself seated upon the dais in the great hall, to the left of his brother Robb. On Robb’s right sat Theon, his ever-present smirk disquieting Bran. Robb was sat in father’s chair, but Robb was now Lord of Winterfell, and the chair now belonged to Robb. That thought saddened Bran, as he wondered how his father was faring at Castle Black. Maester Luwin sat beside Bran, and at the end of the table beside Theon sat the master of arms, Rodrick Cassel and little Rickon. They had been there all day, and for the better part of the previous day.

The great hall’s tables had been pushed to the side forming an aisle down the middle through which the lords and ladies of the North and the Neck had been approaching the dais by for the past two days. Sometimes a line formed at the entrance to the hall, other times they would sit at the dais for an hour or two awaiting new guests. Today though, guests were arriving with increasing frequency, in preparation for tomorrow’s Harvest Feast. As each guest arrived, their names and house were announced, and each approached to renew their oaths of fealty to the North and to the Starks.

At the beginning, Bran had been careful to note each name and house, but by today his mind had begun to swim with bears and moose and battleaxes, and he could no longer focus on the names of each face he saw. Each person may as well have been the same as the last, and besides, keeping track of the names was really the duty of Maester Luwin, and recognizing each lord and lady was the responsibility of Robb, not Bran.

As he thought that, a dark thought took hold within his brain, that if something should happen to Robb, these responsibilities would then fall to him. Bran shuddered at the thought, and vowed to himself he would try to listen more carefully.

The next lord to arrive was easy to recognize, his girth was unsurpassed in all the North. Lord Wyman Manderly was the widest man that Bran had ever seen. How this man could walk, and yet he could not seemed almost a crime to Bran. Lord Manderly’s sons Wylis and Wendel, stood deferentially behind him in front of the dais. Though neither son was as large as their father, had Lord Manderly not been in attendance at Winterfell, both sons would surely have been the heaviest men present, save for Hodor.

For all the size and stature of White Harbor, Bran was relieved when he heard Lord Manderly pledge his unending fealty to House Stark. He not only pledged supplies and troops to strengthen Moat Cailin but also vowed that he would never recognize any Warden of the North who was not a Stark. Having the support of the Manderlys was an important step towards guaranteeing the unity of the North, especially since despite the late afternoon sun, the Umbers and Boltons had not yet been seen.

Bran knew it was a bad sign that neither great house had arrived yet, and if both houses opted to not attend the feast at all, it would be an even worse sign.

It was directly after the Manderlys that Bran saw a very tall, large man at the end of the hall by the doors. The man must have been nearly seven feet tall, and had the largest greatsword Bran had ever seen. Though the sword was not nearly as beautiful as Ice had been, and was clearly not made of Valyrian steel, it was larger than his father’s sword, Ice.

Maester Luwin leaned over and whispered into Bran’s ear. “That Bran, is Jon Umber. Many refer to him as the Greatjon, and he is considered to be one of the best warriors in all of Westeros.”

Bran observed the man approaching the dais. It was apparently also said that the Greatjon was a proud, boisterous man. Given the somber attitude that Robb had adopted lately, Bran feared how they would take to each other, and how such a fearsome warrior would take to receiving orders from a man who had never even killed a man before this past year when wildlings and deserters had tried to steal Bran’s horse in the Wolfswood.

“So you’re the young pup who we’re all supposed to kneel to now”, the Greatjon bellowed out as soon as he had come within 20 feet of the dais.

Bran bristled at the words, and looked to his brother, who looked both embarrassed and indignant. He watched Robb’s chest swell with anger, and said a silent prayer to Summer, Shaggydog, and Greywind, who had been lying quietly behind the dais.

“I am now the Lord of Winterfell, Lord Umber, but there will be no kneeling. I have not been proclaimed Warden of the North by the throne. Instead, I ask that the North unites together until the throne proclaims me as warden.” Robb seemed uncomfortable with his own words. Indeed, it was unclear to Bran as well whether Robb was asking for fealty or partnership. Perhaps both?

The Greatjon walked closer to the dais. “Fuck the Lannisters and fuck their wardens. Once, we bowed down to Aegon and relinquished our lands to the throne, but those days are over. So what would you have yourself called, pup? Warden of the North? King of Winter? Or perhaps we should just call you pup?” He shook his head gruffly. “You need to decide what we are, and soon, or there will be war.”

Robb sat straight in the lord’s chair, bristling at the Greatjon’s words. The high back of the chair seemed to make him taller, more stately. He looked down at the Greatjon, a man 10 years his senior, a man battle tested, a man who was stronger and wiser than both Robb and Bran combined. If this man challenged the Starks for control of the North… the thought made Bran deeply uncomfortable, and a little scared.

Robb cleared his throat, and looked directly at the Greatjon, blue eyes piercing through him. “The Umbers have been pledged to House Stark for thousands of years. I would have you renew that pledge and join my council. I would have your input on what the North wants next. I will not decide the fate of thousands of men on a whim, I will not start a war without the support of House Umber.”

The Greatjon let out a bellow of laughter as Robb finished his words. “You would do well pup to let me lead your troops when it comes to war, because then all those men’s lives will be in your hands, and you will decide their fates. And believe me, there will be war.”

The two men looked hard at each other, the hall was silent enough that Bran could hear his own breathing. He heard the soft sounds of paws against the cool stone floor, as Summer, Shaggydog, and Greywind padded quietly in front of the dais, placing themselves between Robb and the Greatjon. The three wolves bared their teeth and let out menacing growls towards the Greatjon. It was only when the three wolves began to pace slowly towards the Greatjon that he began to falter.

“I will always heed your council but hear me now. Whatever name you give it, whatever titles you choose, they don’t matter to me. What matters to me is that I lead the North, united, in whatever happens next.” The two direwolves stopped less than a foot from the Greatjon, each flanking one side of him. He was boxed in by the wolves, slaver dripping down from their massive jaws.

“Aye, my lord.” The Greatjon relented cautiously. “House Umber will stand behind House Stark as we have done for thousands of years.”

The tension in the room dissipated slightly, but a wariness was still plastered on Robb’s face, and mirrored in that of Maester Luwin.

 _Words are wind,_ Bran thought, his face twisting into a poorly hidden grimace.

 

\--

 

It was the day of the Harvest Feast, and once more Bran found himself seated on the dais beside his brother, the Lord of Winterfell. It was well into the feast, and many dishes had already been brought out. Bran felt fuller than he ever had in his life. He had already feasted on quail, lamprey eel pie, and several hearty meat stews, but the food was still coming out in an ever increasingly dizzying procession. Though the dizziness could be accounted for by the three mugs of ale that Bran had drunk.

He and Robb were jesting with each other, as they had long ago, before Bran’s fall. Bran japed to Robb that several serving girls were being a little too friendly with him, and a strained longing seemed to flash by his blue eyes as he gazed at a particularly busty red-haired girl.

“What do you think the girl I’m to marry looks like, Bran?”

Bran considered his brother, a man grown who held the fate of both the North and the Riverlands in his hands. A man with a wife promised to him, who seemed only concerned with his future wife’s beauty. Then Bran looked down at his broken legs, and wondered if he would ever marry any woman, no matter her name or station. _Why marry a woman off to a man who can’t give heirs?_

Robb’s question angered him so much he couldn’t even answer it. He merely looked back at his brother, back down at his legs, and frowned, shrugging. Embarrassment creeped up on Robb’s face as the realization dawned upon him.

Robb seemed to be about to apologize, when they noticed a small boy and girl walking up to the dais, winding their way around the tables of rowdy Northmen feasting. The boy was slight, and dressed in green clothing. Beside him stood a girl, almost as slight as him, though Bran could now see she was a woman grown. She was no lady though, dressed in breeches and a jerkin, her long brown hair tied back. Though she didn’t wear a dress and had no fancy style to her hair, it felt to Bran that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, her dark green eyes piercing into him, before she turned her gaze onto Robb.

“I am Meera Reed, and this is my brother, Jojen Reed. Our father, Howland Reed was lucky enough to call your father one of his closest friends.” She smiled congenially at Robb. “He has sent us in his stead to renew our oaths of fealty. House Reed and the Crannogmen stand with House Stark.”

Her words were as kind as her eyes, cheerful despite the solemn vow that was being proclaimed. “Our father has requested that we stay here at Winterfell to protect Bran when you travel southwards for your wedding at the Twins. He has also invited you and your men to stay with him on your journey southward.” She bowed slightly, to Robb, dipping her eyes down before meeting his gaze once more. Robb smiled back, beaming, and waved them forward to a table near the front, making sure choice dishes were sent their way.

Robb leaned over and whispered to Bran. “Have you ever seen a lady dressed that way before, Bran? In breeches?”

Bran smiled, and nodded to Arya, who had taken note of the Reeds, and sat herself beside them. “Only Arya.”

Robb frowned then. “Arya’s different though, she’s not a lady. She’s just Arya.”

Bran shook his head, and smiled slightly, watching his sister engaging with the Reeds. It was almost as if it were old times, except he and Robb were stuck up on the dais, instead of down at the tables with his sister.

Later that evening, when the hall had descended into drunken debauchery, Bran called for Hodor. He found himself drawn to the Godswood and directed Hodor to take him to the Weirwood tree. Hodor sat him against the trunk of the tree, the roots twisting around his body, and almost engulfing him into the bark. He felt a calm overwhelm him, almost as though he were meant to be here. Summer came to him, and curled up by his feet, as Hodor sat back in one of the hot pools of water.  

He had always had such vivid dreams, but lately they had been all encompassing, and they usually centered around Weirwood trees and a crow. In those dreams, he was often a wolf, prowling the godswood. Other times he dreamt of the broken tower, and the day he fell from it. It was then that the crow would come to him, pecking and taunting as he fell to the earth. But the crow was no ordinary crow, it had three eyes, and could talk to Bran. Mostly though, the crow took to taunting him as he fell, cawing out _fly or die_ , in a raspy thick voice.

Bran was thrust from his thoughts by the sound of Summer growling. He saw Meera and Jojen step out from the surrounding forest. “I thought you might be here”, Jojen said quietly.

“What made you think that? I told everyone that I was going to my chambers.”

“I saw it in a dream, Bran. I think you’ve had those kinds of dreams too.” As Jojen told Bran of green dreams and the three-eyed crow, he felt all the events since his fall come into view clearly.

“Is the three-eyed crow real?” he asked.

“As real as you or I, Bran.”

“Where is he?”

“North. Past the wall. No one knows exactly where, but I think he’s trying to tell you.” Bran thought of his dreams, of flying and dying. He thought of the three-eyed crow pecking at his forehead. Finally, he thought of his father at the Wall, alone. The thought made him terrified.

“He wants me to go to him, north of the wall.” Bran said, suddenly sure of what the dreams had been telling him. “But I can’t go now, Robb leaves for the Twins tomorrow, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Rickon is too young to hold the castle while Robb is away.”

“Whenever you decide to go, Bran, we will go with you. I saw it before in my dreams, we are meant to lead you to the three-eyed crow.”

Bran regarded Jojen and Meera before him. How could these two people who had never met him before this night be so willing to risk their lives by travelling north of the wall?

That night Bran dreamt once more of the broken tower, and the three-eyed crow. It pecked at him harder than ever before, until he was sure he must be bleeding. But when he raised his hand to his forehead where the bird had pecked, he felt no wound. Instead, he felt the soft flesh of an eyelid where his forehead had been. And then the crow whispered in his ear, _Remember_ , and he felt the eyelid open to reveal a small, third eye.

All of a sudden, he was at the top of the broken tower once more, and he could feel himself beginning to fall. This time though, Bran saw through his third eye, and he saw a blonde-haired prince push him from the tower. As he began to fall, he saw the crow flying towards him, and heard a quiet voice in the background call out _“The things we do for love”._

The crow looked at him right in his third eye, and suddenly he saw things he had never seen before. He saw Cersei and Jaime Lannister holding each other in the window of the broken tower, he saw another tower, from long ago. Vines grew up the side of this tower, and they were blooming with winter roses.

Bran saw his bastard brother Jon Snow, holding Sansa tight to his chest as she wept. He saw dragons larger than Aurochs taking flight over the Narrow Sea. Then Bran saw Castle Black, and his father standing in a courtyard in front of hundreds of black brothers. He saw his uncle Benjen north of the wall, atop a great brown beast. Finally, Bran saw a massive Weirwood tree, larger than any tree he had ever seen. The bright red leaves were a stark contrast to all the snow surrounding it’s pale roots, and the branches seemed to reach out to him, beckoning him. _Fly or die, Bran, fly or die._

 

 

\---------

 

**Catelyn**

 

It was another dreary afternoon at the Crossing when Robb arrived, 500 men behind him. It was a small force that had assembled and ridden down to the Twins with Robb, less likely to be perceived as a threat to the Westerlands. Yet, the idea of Robb’s 500 men against the thousands of Frey men made Catelyn uneasy. It made her even more uneasy to watch Robb atop his fine white courser, leading his bannermen into the towers of the Twins.

Her son had grown so much, and it hadn’t even been a year since Ned had left Winterfell. Robb was a man grown at 19, but he had never seen battle. He had never loved and lost, he had never even ventured past the confines of the North before this trip. Catelyn feared his naivety would be clear to the Northern lords, and even worse that old Walder would notice it as well.

As men streamed through the gates, Catelyn looked down from the parapets, taking note of banners that she saw. The grey direwolf of the Starks, the black lizard-lion of the Reeds, the merman of the Manderlys, the white sunburst of the Karstarks, the brown bullmoose of the Hornwoods, the silver fist of the Glovers, and others. It was a good host, but it would never be enough if war broke out. It was then that Greywind loped past the final horses and ran through the gates, eyes intent and jaws set. It was as if the direwolf sensed her discomfort.

The only thought that gave Catelyn comfort was that Edmure Tully and a host of his own were on their way north for the wedding. She had begged Edmure not to come, to focus on holding the Riverlands, but she found now that the thought of his host joining them brought her comfort and hope that there could be peace and trust between the Tullys and the Freys. It was of course a foolish notion, she knew, but it comforted her none the less.

The true key to controlling Walder would be to continue to convince him that the Starks and the Tullys were indeed the winning side, and the Lannisters were sure to fail, should war ever come to pass. _When war comes to pass,_ a voice said solemnly in her head.

A page came to her up on the parapets informing her that Robb had also been given chambers in the Water Tower, and that he awaited her in his solar at her earliest convenience. She smiled at that, glad that her son was so eager to seek her council. It bode well that he still sought out her advice.

Catelyn walked up the stairs of the Water Tower, noting that the suite put aside for Robb was at the very top of the tower, as befit the Lord of Winterfell. Though it would take time for her to accustom herself to that, she was glad to see that the Freys had thought of the gesture. Robb’s suite consisted of several chambers and a large solar, appointed with two separate hearths. The rest of the suite appeared to be well lit with braziers that provided a warmth that soothed Catelyn’s bones.

She entered the solar to find her son sat in a high-backed chair staring at the fire. His eyes were intent on the flames, licking up the thick logs in the hearth. His hands were held tight around the arms of the chair, gripping the soft blue fabric. As she got closer, Catelyn saw the thick auburn beard that now grew along her son’s jawbone, saw the bags under his eyes that mirrored her own, and finally she saw sadness in his Tully blue eyes.

She ran towards her firstborn son, barely giving him time to rise before she wrapped her arms around him. She wanted more than anything to take this hardship away from him, to let him be a boy once more. “My dear Robb, how was your journey?”

Robb looked uncomfortable with the way she was holding him as if he were still a boy, and not the Lord of Winterfell. He pulled away slightly from her grip. “It was fine mother, I am fine. Arya and Bran and Rickon are fine too, but they miss their mother.”

Catelyn’s face fell at his words. Was he trying to get her to return to Winterfell? Did he not understand everything that she was doing for him? Everything she had sacrificed for him?

“I will come home to them as soon as I can, you know as well as I that there is so much we must do here before we can return.” She had to be careful, even here of how she spoke to her son. If she did not give him the proper courtesies, how could they ever expect any of the other lords to do so? She must lift her son up, give him the confidence to lead as his father had taught him and instructed him.

“Aye mother, I know. I have been trying. I have sent ravens to all the northern lords, and met with many of them in person at the Harvest Feast. We even visited Greywater Watch on our way south and ensured the loyalty of the Reeds. Lord Howland Reed spoke fondly of father and of his fealty to the Starks. He has even sent his children Jojen and Meera north to Winterfell as a gesture of good faith. They seem to put both Bran and Rickon in good spirits.”

Catelyn’s heart softened to hear the pride in her son’s voice, but she held deeper concerns in her heart. “I saw many banners today, but not all the banners of the North. Tell me Robb, why did I not see the sigils of the Umbers and the Boltons? They hold some of the largest and strongest forces in the North.” As she finished speaking, she noted the pain in her son’s eyes. He sat slowly back into his chair, sinking into its high back.

“I have met with or sent envoys, and secured the support of the Manderlys, Tallharts, Glovers, Cerwyn, Hornwoods, Dustins, Karstarks, Mormonts, Flints, Reeds, and all of the Riverlands, thanks to you mother.”

Catelyn sighed, her son was trying to avoid her question. “And the Umbers and the Boltons, Robb?”

Robb looked deeply uncomfortable. His eyes fell to the ground, soft auburn curls fell along his forehead. “The Umbers and Boltons have assured me of their allegiance to the Starks, yet they declined to send any men south with me on this journey. They claimed it was an unnecessary journey when the realm is so close to war.”

Robb paused, his face pained. “I want to believe them, but I’m not sure I do. Greatjon Umber has taken to calling me pup, even to his men. He said he would keep faith with the Starks as he always has, but I don’t think he trusts me, I don’t believe that he respects me.” Catelyn nodded gravely. Greatjon Umber was a fierce and formidable man, and would not take kindly to following an untested boy into battle.

“And Roose Bolton… Mother he makes me deeply uncomfortable. There is something about him that made Greywind uneasy and I had to call him away from his son Ramsey. Greywind had him pinned against a wall. I have never seen him like that before, it was as though he were possessed.”

Catelyn sat carefully in a chair opposite her son. It had begun already, the North was slowly fractioning apart before them. “Listen carefully to me Robb, Greatjon Umber is fiercely loyal to the North and to the Starks, but he will only listen to those that he respects. You must show him that you are a strong and capable leader, and you must show him the respect he deserves as well.” Robb sat, considering her words.

“Aye, and Roose Bolton?”

Catelyn shivered, thinking of how Greywind had acted towards the Boltons. Though at first the direwolves had made her nervous, over time she had learned that they seemed to see things that no one else did. “I trust that man as much as I trust Walder Frey. And that Greywind doesn’t trust him… I don’t like it Robb. Keep that man close and tell him little. Do not trust him.”

Robb nodded severely, in agreement with her assessment.

“In the meantime, I have asked the Manderlys to begin storing foods and supplies for war. Some is being stored at Whiteharbour, but more is being shipped to Moat Cailin. As father asked, I have instructed that Tallharts and the Glovers to leave their men behind at Moat Cailin on our way back North. More will come down if needed, but I am trying to be cautious right now.”

Catelyn nodded her approval, reaching out to grasp her son’s hands in her own. “I am proud of you Robb, more than you could ever know.” Her throat began to constrict as she bit back tears. “It takes a brave man to do all that you have done, and to have come here today.” She looked her son in the face, his expression one of resignation.

“I always thought when I married, it would be for love. I always thought I’d see my bride before the wedding, that I’d look upon her face, that I’d court her…” his voice drifted off, sadness overcoming his body. _How can I watch as my son suffers so? And yet, this is how I had come to Ned on our wedding day, and him to me._

Robb looked once more at Catelyn, unsure of his next words. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There is one more thing, mother. Something Bran told me the night before I left Winterfell.” Robb took a deep breath, pausing to choose his next words carefully.

“Bran told me that he remembered what happened the day of his fall from the broken tower.” Catelyn felt her heart lurch in her chest, she had been dreading this moment for months.

Robb looked over to her, a pained expression on his face. “It was Jaime Lannister, mother. He and Cersei pushed Bran from the tower. He must have seen them together.”

Catelyn felt an anger swell into her core. She had known it was the Lannisters, she had just gotten which one wrong. She grabbed Robb’s hands with her own, gripping them tightly in her hand.

“Promise me Robb, that I shall have a mother’s revenge on Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Once, for what they did to Bran, and once more for what they have done to Sansa. Everything that has befallen us is because of them. If it weren’t for them Ned would still be here. Promise me, that I will get to look them in the eyes and watch them die.”

She felt Robb’s silence, deafening to her pain and sorrow. “Promise me, Robb. When war comes, you will deliver them to me for justice.” Her voice had now become hoarse and desperate.

Robb’s brow furrowed. “Aye mother, I promise.”

 

\--

 

Old Walder Frey insisted on a wedding in a sept in front of the new gods. Catelyn breathed a sigh of relief as she saw a pretty, small girl, barely a woman grown walking towards Robb. She also saw the breath of relief escape from Robb’s mouth as he gazed upon the pretty girl. Why Walder had insisted on keeping the identity of Roslin Frey hidden from Robb was a mystery to Catelyn. Perhaps it had been a test? Everything Walder did was measured and constructed as a means to an end.

Though she was a small girl with narrow hips, her beauty and gentle nature was apparent as she stood before Robb in the sept, their hands intertwined. After their wedding vows were exchanged, Robb placed a chaste kiss upon her lips, his smile brimming from ear to ear. Catelyn finally released a deep breath of relief, not realizing how much tension she had been holding within herself for the past few weeks here at the Twins.

At the feast afterwards, Catelyn danced with her eldest son, awash with glee and several mugs of ale. “Treat her well Robb, take your vows seriously, and put a babe in her belly as soon as possible.”

Catelyn laughed merrily as she saw her son’s cheeks redden. It was only a few minutes after that the bedding ceremony began, and Catelyn sat back, sipping on the harsh ale, exchanging lighthearted conversation with Ser Rodrick Cassel.

When Robb had been hurried away to his bedchambers with his new bride, Ser Rodrick leaned over, and quietly whispered in her ear. “My lady, I’ve received word back from Maester Luwin. He asked me to tell you he still has not received any ravens back from your sister in the Vale, and worse still he has received a raven from Renly Baratheon. In response to your pleas, Renly has asked that Robb come join him at his camp in Bitter Bridge. He wrote that if the North truly means to support Renly, then Robb must join him as soon as possible. A united North along with Renly would all but secure the throne for him.”

Catelyn felt sick to her stomach, all the joy and revelry of the evening dissipated in mere minutes. Surely, Renly must know that sending Robb south would further weaken their hold on the North? Catelyn found herself thinking of all the Starks who had travelled south and never returned back to Winterfell. She thought of Ned, of Brandon, and her promises. Finally, she thought of Renly.

A plan formed in her mind. She would go south as an envoy for Robb. She would push him to see this was the right course of action, that together they could save the realm from the grips of the Lannisters.

 

\-------

 

 

**Ned**

 

Ned sat on a rock in the middle of a grove of weirwood trees, cleaning Ice with a cloth. In the north, each godswood had its own weirwood tree, but Ned had never seen a group of weirwoods grow together, though he had heard stories of the Isle of Faces. Each tree here was carved with its own likeness, no two faces the same. Some had small mouths, upturned in ghostly grimaces. Others had large cavernous mouths, bright blood red sap trickling down from the corners of them.

At Winterfell, the godswood had been a source of calm for Ned, a stabilizing force. Here, north of the wall, it was disquieting. The nights always seemed darker, and it felt almost as though the branches of the weirwood trees were reaching down towards him, their red leaves dark as blood. Yet, he still found himself drawn to the woods at least twice a fortnight, though he couldn’t be sure if it was habit or another inexorable pull that brought him there.

Ned had been at the wall for several months now. At first, he had been sure that he would never accustom to the band of thieves that made up the Nightswatch. But over time, he found comfort in the routines, found comradery to replace his own heartbreak. Most of all, Ned had found a kindred spirit in the old bear, Jeor Mormont. They supped together nearly every night, sharing stories of what lies beyond the wall.

Ned had grown up being told tall tales of the Others by Old Nan, but now it seemed that winter was truly coming. A winter longer and harsher than any winter for thousands of years. The thought of these Others moving southward disturbed Ned greatly. It had been even more disturbing to Ned when he heard that his brother Benjen had gone out on a ranging mission weeks before he arrived, and still had not yet returned. He had begged leave of Joer to allow him to go searching for his brother, but his pleas had so far been denied.

So Ned spent his time training the new recruits, in place of a man, Alliser Thorne, who had been sent south to King’s Landing to plea for supplies and men. Many of the men and boys who came to the wall had never held a sword in their hands, many had been sent to the wall for petty crimes that a lord could have bought a pardon for. It hardly felt like justice to send young boys to the wall for stealing food, so their family didn’t stave. Then again, what had happened to him wasn’t justice either.

It sufficed for Ned to know that he was gaining a new purpose here, training men for the coming winter. He remembered a story that Old Nan had told him long ago, that when Brandon the Builder made the wall, he imbued it with old magic, with the magic of the children of the forest. This magic made the wall impenetrable to the Others. Were all the old stories true?

The increases in wildling raidings, compounded with an increase in Nightswatch deserters, and strange ranger reports could mean nothing good. Ned could feel that the summer winds no longer blew, and when the white raven came from the citadel announcing the end of summer, it had been no surprise to Ned.

Ned finished cleaning Ice, and resheathed it. He stood up slowly, his knees creaking with stiffness from the cold. He climbed onto his mount and began the short travel to the wall.

He stopped in front of the gate, a single horn call bellowing out into the blackness of the night. The chains of the gate heaved and groaned as they lifted the heavy iron up to allow Ned to pass through on his mount. Once through the gate, one of Jeor’s stewards approached him.

“Beggin’ your pardon Lord Stark, the Lord Commander wishes to speak with you in his chambers as soon as you are able.” Ned sighed, and dismounted, handing the reins over to a stable hand.

Ned climbed the steps to the Lord Commander’s chambers, eager to see what Jeor had to say that was so urgent, as he rarely called on Ned so late in the evening. Ned paused at the solar door, knocking on the heavy door.

“Come in” came the raspy voice of old Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Nightswatch.

Ned entered the solar, immediately assaulted by the old raven that followed Jeor wherever he went.

“Corn, corn” cawed the raven, pecking at Ned’s gloved hand. Jeor shooed the raven away, and beckoned Ned to join him sitting in front of the fire.

“Ned, we need to know what is happening north of the wall. Since Benjen has gone missing we have been without a first ranger. We have lost dozens of men this year to desertion or who knows what. The last I heard, the villages in the Haunted Forest were deserted, and Mance Rayder seems to be marching ever closer to the wall. Between that and what happened to the bodies that we brought back to Castle Black from beyond the wall…” his voice drifted off.

Ned had not seen what had transpired personally, but he had been told the lifeless corpses of their fellow black brothers had come back from the dead in the black of night. But they had come back, different, possessed. Their eyes were a cold piercing blue, and nothing short of fire was able to stop them. Were they the wights that Old Nan had talked so much about? The army of dead men lead by the Others? If they truly were, and the Others were heading closer to the wall, then they were all in great peril. The Nightswatch was woefully undermanned and undersupplied.

“Let me lead a party north of the wall, my lord, and I will report back to you on all that is happening.”

Jeor considered Ned, and his request, then shook his head. “No, I think not Ned. You’ve been north of the wall, yes, but you’ve never been to the Haunted Forest, nor the Frost Fangs. And besides, I don’t think you’d take well to old Craster.” The old bear paused, collecting his thoughts.

“No, I will lead the party north, and you will stay behind and will have command of Castle Black while I am gone. See to the training of the new recruits and run the castle as I know you can while I am gone. And do make sure that Maester Aemon sends ravens south to King’s Landing inquiring about Ser Alliser. We have yet to hear back from him, and it has been months.”

Ned nodded his head solemnly. “Aye, I will do as you ask.” Silently, Ned said a prayer to the Old Gods that they would find his brother Benjen safe, even though he felt in his bones that it was already too late.

 

 

\---------


	10. Surrounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn tries to broker peace between Renly and Stannis, the Lannisters prepare for war while a royal wedding takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait the full week to post this chapter, I've been working up to this turn in events for quite some time...

* * *

**Catelyn**

 

Catelyn had been travelling southwards for a couple weeks now, taking back roads on her journey to entreat a partnership between the North and the Baratheons. Robb had insisted that the North would only support Renly and Stannis if they stood united, together. He was following the words given to him by Ned, Catelyn knew. But Catelyn also knew that Renly and Stannis would never be united, could never be united, because they both desired the iron throne more than they cared for each other.

That concept was surely a mystery to her Ned, who could not understand why Renly would defy his older brother. How Ned thought Renly would eventually yield to Stannis when he held all the force of the Stormlands and the Reach behind him was infuriating to her. By all the gods, old and new, Catelyn loved Ned more than words could say, but the way that he saw the world was not the way the world was. _And that’s why he now rots at the Wall,_ Catelyn thought, her heart wrenching in knots.

She had traveled south with Ser Rodrik Cassel, and a small escort of men from the Riverlands. Though her name was Stark now, she would always be a Tully too, and the loyalty of Edmure’s men could not be questioned. Still though, they chose to avoid the Kingsroad, which had begun to be plagued by bandits and outlaws. Though the Mountain had been murdered by the brotherhood without banners, other bandits simply took his place, stirring further chaos in the Riverlands.

When her escort had combined with the band of men returning from their journey to aid Jon Snow in his quest to murder the Mountain, she had been inundated with tales of his courage and bravery. She tried her best to hold her tongue as they called him the White Wolf, though all she could think of was poor Robb, married to a Frey, and sitting precariously in his lord’s chair at Winterfell. She couldn’t help her mind from drifting to suspicions of how loyal Jon Snow truly was, and whether she could trust Ned’s assessment of Jon’s loyalty, given his poor assessment of Renly Baratheon.

Catelyn was pulled from her thoughts by Ser Rodrik, whose great courser cantered up to her own chestnut palfrey.

“My lady, we have received word from a rider who received a raven at Riverrun. The message was addressed to you, and has arrived here unopened.” Ser Rodrik handed her the small scroll, the paper feeling rough and worn in her hands. She turned it to see the wax seal of the Baratheons holding the scroll sealed. Her mouth began to feel very dry. What more could Renly ask of her now?

She broke the seal, and gazed down at the words scrawled hurriedly into the parchment. As she read, her fingers raised to the bridge of her nose, trying to alleviate the growing stress from her head. She let out a heavy sigh, and shook her head. _Men and their wars, they will never be happy until they rule everything their eyes behold, or die trying._

“My lady? What does it say?” Ser Rodrik gazed at her in concern.

“Stannis Baratheon has begun a siege on Storm’s End, claiming that by all rights it belongs to him, not to Renly. Renly has taken 20,000 of his men and headed there to defeat his brother.” Catelyn shook her head again. Family should not battle with family; the idea made her sick to her stomach. “We must head to Storm’s End, we must meet with Renly and with Stannis and convince them this is folly. The true enemy is the Lannisters, we must all seek justice against them, not against each other.”

Ser Rodrik nodded quickly, bowing his head slightly. He dug his heels into the side of his courser, and moved for the front of the retinue, to alert them of the change in destination.

Catelyn sat atop her palfrey, wondering if they shouldn’t just turn around and leave the Baratheons to deal with each other. It would be easier to return home, to see her Bran and Rickon and Arya once more. To help Robb in these early days of marriage, to steal herself north to visit Ned. This new route south to Storm’s End would take them through the Kingswood. It would not be safe, and it would be a long and weary journey.

Was she doing the right thing? What is the right thing, when everything you have known your entire life is at stake? She didn’t know, but her heart told her that the only way towards peace was unifying the North and the Baratheons. So, she steeled her resolve, and said a silent prayer to the seven for a safe journey.

 

\--

 

It was two more weeks before Catelyn reached Storm’s End. She heard the sounds of battle before she saw the castle. She smelled the scent of battle too, acrid and metallic. It hung thick in the air, a dark omen. Her men set up a camp far back from the fighting. Neither side had reason to harm them, and yet, Catelyn did not trust them.

They had only begun to set up a camp when two knights strode up to them in full armour, a rainbow striped cloak pinned to each of their backs. The smaller knight lifted his helm to reveal a handsome face, sweat-matted brown curls hanging in rivulets along his forehead and down his neck. He was young and lithe, and could be no other man than Ser Loras Tyrell.

“My lady, I am Ser Loras Tyrell, commander of King Renly’s Rainbow Guard. We have been sent to escort you to the center of our camp, where you will be safe.” Catelyn considered the two men before her. Would she truly be safe in Renly’s camp, or would she simply be a willing prisoner? If she were to camp with Renly, surely Stannis would take that as a slight against him? 

“I thank you for the offer, Ser Loras. However, I will have to decline. It is my wish to remain impartial, to broker peace between Renly and Stannis.”

She heard the sounds of a quiet scoff behind the helm of the other knight’s armour. Ser Loras merely looked at her in amusement. “My lady, you have traveled south at the bequest of _King_ Renly, you are a guest of his whether you choose to be or not. As for peace, Stannis threw that away the day he laid siege to Storm’s End.”

Catelyn heard the sound of Ser Rodrik unsheathing his sword, preparing to defend her. She raised her hand quickly to stop him. It would do no good for more bloodshed to befall them. She nodded slowly, acquiescing to the two knights’ demand.

She was led to a grand tent, adorned with silks and satin. She assumed it to be the quarters that Renly and his wife shared, but was surprised upon entering to find the inside furnished with only a single bed in one corner, and a large hastily constructed table taking up most of the center of the tent. Atop the table laid maps of various styles and sizes. Renly was stood hunched over the table with several men, looking over the maps. He looked up at the sound of their entrance. Catelyn had chosen to enter alone, escorted by the same two knights that had taken her into this queer sort of custody.

“I see you’ve met two of the members of my Rainbow Guard, Cat! Aren’t their cloaks gallant?” Renly called out to her, his voice warm with familiarity. Catelyn curtsied slightly towards Renly, showing her respect. “They are indeed, my lord.”

A cough rang loudly through the tent, again from the helm of the other knight. That knight removed his helm, revealing a homely face, and short blonde hair, wet with sweat and disheveled from the helm. Catelyn suppressed a gasp at finding the knight was actually a woman. She had never seen a woman so tall, so strong before. She had never seen a woman in armour at all before. The woman looked at her, matching her gaze. “You will address King Renly as his grace, as befits his station.” The woman’s eyes bore into Catelyn’s soul, full of spite.

“Brienne, there is no need for such formalities between friends!” Renly called out once more, gathering Catelyn up into his arms for a congenial hug. The woman called Brienne scowled, but stood back, melding into the fabrics of the tent. “My lady, I am so glad that you came to join me here. I’m sorry to say it isn’t as fair as our main camp in Bitter Bridge, but we make do. Has Robb joined you as well?”

Catelyn ground her teeth, calming herself before she spoke rashly. “I’m afraid he could not join. He was needed back in Winterfell, and is newly married as well.” Renly looked at her with disinterest.

“So am I, yet you see me toiling away here while my new wife sits alone in Bitter Bridge.” Catelyn was shocked to hear that Renly had chosen not to bring his new wife with him. Surely, he must know how important it was to secure an heir?

“I am here as an envoy of my son, I speak for him, with his words.” Catelyn began, looking carefully at Renly. “It is the wish of the North to support a Baratheon on the iron throne. It is also our wish to seek justice against the Lannisters for their many crimes against House Stark.”

Renly nodded casually. “Yes, yes Cat, but which Baratheon will you be supporting?”

Catelyn cleared her throat, considering her next words carefully. “The North wishes to support a united Baratheon front. It is not for us to decide who shall sit the throne, but must be decided between you and Stannis alone.” Renly laughed at her words, leaving her bristling.

“My lady, Stannis made that decision the day he laid siege to mine own castle. Do you see the men I have here alone, not counting the many thousands more at Bitter Bridge? He will be defeated by me soon, and I will be the only Baratheon left standing. He has chosen his own fate, and he chose death.”

“That may be so, Renly. But I was always taught that there is no man as accursed as the kinslayer. You can not kill your own brother, and you cannot think he would allow you to steal his crown without a battle.” It was now Renly’s turn to bristle.

“Steal?! Steal? What have I stolen, that was not free for me to take? How can we allow that old crone of a man be king? He ran away to Dragonstone for half a year, sitting by while we all suffered at the hands of the Lannisters. And all that time he sat there that damned red priestess sat beside him, whispering dangerous words in his ear. The red priestess and her god are an abomination in the view of the seven, the seven you worship as well Cat. No, the crown was not meant for him, it was meant for me. It was mine to take, not by succession, but by every other right that there is in this world.”

Catelyn sighed, defeated. How could she defend a man who turned his back to the faith of the realm? Perhaps Stannis truly had chosen his own fate?

“Maybe so, Renly. But I still implore you, for the sake of your soul, to meet and discuss peace with your brother. You cannot kill him, or you will be labelled a kinslayer, and you will never be respected as king.” Catelyn could tell her words had reached him, watching his face falter.

“He attacked my castle, Cat. He has killed hundreds of my men. How can I allow such trespasses against me?”

“By forgiving a man for his weaknesses”, she said quietly, sternly. “Mercy is the measure of a true and just king, the king I know you aspire to be, that you could be. Forgive your brother, and make peace, and the realm will unite behind you.”

“Stannis will never apologize, he will never support me.” Renly’s face was unsure, uncomfortable, almost naive. It was hard to believe that such a young man was waging so much war, that the fate of the realm rested on his still youthful shoulders.

“How will you know what he will do if you do not meet with him, if you do not hear his words?” If she could just get them talking to each other, maybe, maybe they could find peace. A voice in her head told her she was as foolish and naïve as Renly.

 

\--

 

“You are as brash and stupid as you always have been Renly. Do you remember how you used to run around this castle in your swaddling clothes as a babe? “ _Look at me, look at me, I’m a king”,_ you used to yell as you ran about with a flower crown atop your head. You are the same as you were as a child, and you are no king of mine or anyone else’s. As long as you stand here with that ridiculous crown atop your head, you are a false king.”

Stannis’ words hung heavy in the air, as Catelyn sat atop her palfrey, Ser Rodrik on one side of her, and Brienne on the other. In front of her sat Renly atop a massive courser, and Ser Loras beside him, looking gallant as ever. Not twenty feet away sat Stannis atop a grey courser, his onion knight sat beside him, looking dour as always. Behind them, a woman dressed all in red, with red hair and red eyes sat atop a white palfrey, the red of her dress looking like blood against the palfrey’s pale fur. Their eyes met, and Catelyn felt a chill fall through her body. This woman before her unnerved her more than anything she had ever seen.

The thing that disturbed Cat most was that Stannis had changed his sigil, and incorporated the lord of light into his new sigil. The realm would never accept a king that did not follow the faith of the seven. In one move, Stannis had alienated himself from the entire realm by choosing this sigil, by choosing to follow this lord of light, this queer fire god.

Renly held tight to the reins of his courser, beckoning it closer to his brother. “I am not a false king, you are. You who forsakes his own house sigil. You who attacks his own brother’s castle –“. Renly was interrupted as he spoke by Stannis. “Storm’s End should have fallen to me, why Robert ever gave it to you I’ll never understand. It was mine by rights, not yours.” Stannis' voice interjected angrily.

“And yet he gave it to me brother. Perhaps you should spend less time worrying about what you are owed, and more time being thankful for what you have been given.”

A wind rose sharply as Renly’s own words bit into Stannis. Catelyn watched Stannis’ already downcast face fall even lower. She watched his eyebrows furrow, and his jaw set. Perhaps this parlay had been a terrible idea.

“I beg of both of you, please find peace together. The Lannisters have secured the throne for themselves. The realm is under the control of Tywin Lannister. They have conspired and murdered those that we all love. Robert, Jon Arryn, and they almost murdered my own son, Bran. They hold my daughter Sansa hostage, and have ravaged the Riverlands. We must unite together and destroy them. United we are stronger.”

“What need do I have of the few thousand sellswords my brother has employed? What good do a few thousand do against my 50,000 men?” Catelyn shook her head at both brothers. How could two brothers be so different, yet so alike? Both so damned headstrong and defiant? Catelyn felt sympathy towards their mother, and the patience she must have had to suffer these two and their quarrels.

“My few thousand men were about to take Storm’s End and will do so as soon as this parlay ends.” Stannis spat out bitterly.

“Then you leave me no choice brother, but to kill you.” Renly looked down as he fished for something inside his cloak. Catelyn’s heart stopped as she feared he was grasping for his sword. Stannis himself reacted quickly, grasping for his own sword. In that moment, Renly pulled out a singular, ripe peach, and held it out to his brother.

“Before you die brother, you truly must try a peach. They come straight from the gardens of the Reach. You have never tasted something so sweet. A man should never refuse to try a peach, he may never have another chance again.” Renly said, smiling widely at his brother.

Stannis’ courser let out a cautioning whiny, as Stannis refused the taunt put forward by his brother. Catelyn felt her heart pounding out of her chest. 

“Suit yourself brother. Just know that you could have had all the riches of the realm as my hand, and I would have given you Storm’s End as a gift. All this sweetness could have been yours, if you only would have bent your knee to me.” Renly’s voice rang haughtily through the fields, only serving to further enrage his brother.

Renly went to take a bite from the peach. As he bit into the peach, his face contorted into disgust, juices running down his chin. He spat the peach out onto the ground, and Catelyn saw that the peach has begun to rot from the inside out. Renly continued to spit the rotten fruit from his mouth, and his brother smirked at him.

“Words are wind, and a true king kneels to no one, brother. Someday soon you’ll choke on your own words the same way you choked on your damned peach.” With that, Stannis rode off back to his camp, the onion knight in tow.

The red priestess paused though, lingering. A small smile formed on her lips as she looked at Renly.

“The lord of light works in mysterious ways. He sends us messages that we must learn to read. He sent us one today, my lord.” Her voice was deep and melodious, almost haunting to Catelyn’s ears. She turned to look once more at Catelyn, freezing her in place.

“My lady, when I looked at you, I saw two towers beside a river. I saw a bowl of salt spilled on a stone floor, covered in blood. I saw a young wolf cub, murdered. His lifeless body laying beside that of his mother’s. But I see now, that was another life.” She paused, gazing deeper into Catelyn’s eyes. Catelyn began to shiver uncontrollably. She felt a feeling of dread creeping upon her, it’s thick tendrils invading her body.

“There is no one as accursed as the kinslayer. I have seen now, no good will come of battle with Renly, and no good can come of attacking King’s Landing just yet.” The red priestess continued, looked back to Renly.

“You will not murder your own kin, and he will not murder you. But the throne will not be yours, it will belong to Stannis. I have seen it in the flames.” Renly looked ready to speak, his mouth hung open, yet no words came out. The priestess pulled on her palfrey’s reins and began to saunter back to her camp. She turned back slowly, gazing once more at Catelyn. “Until we meet again, Lady Stoneheart.”

 

 

\-------

 

 

**Tyrion**

 

Tyrion sat at the large wooden table in the small council chambers, nursing the remnants of his cups from the night before. He drank watered wine, hoping to stave off the worst of his headache still to come. When his father had left King’s Landing for Casterly Rock, he had forbidden Tyrion from bringing any shame to the Lannister name.

Yet, his father’s words had seemed to have the opposite effect of Tyrion’s demeanor. While Tyrion was dutifully attending meetings and making preparations for the incoming invasion by Renly’s army during the day, by evening, Tyrion found himself seeking out the comfort of women more than he ever had before.

Each time he fell into bed with another whore, he felt guilt for defying his father, and guilt for the bride he’d never truly had. The guilt drove him to drink, and drove him to even worse sorrow. Most nights he would find himself finishing to the thought of his young bride, his young whore. _Tysha_ , his heart would scream out, and he would drown it out with wine until he no longer saw her kind eyes, her long dark hair. But still as he made his way back to the Red Keep each night he felt haunted by her voice, humming a tune he couldn’t remember the words to.

Each morning he would wake to a servant bringing him honeyed milk and iced water, indulgences that many in King’s Landing could no longer afford. This morning had been especially difficult, and his brother had practically dragged him from bed to the small council chambers.

As hand of the king in stead of his father, Tyrion was to run the small council meetings. Yet he found it exceedingly difficult to get a word in between his sister Cersei, Jaime, and Maester Pycelle. Today though, Lord Varys sat looking expectantly at him from across the table.

“My lord hand, I asked how preparations for Renly’s invasion are coming along?” He tittered, expectantly. Tyrion groaned inwardly.

“Yes, well we still do not yet know for certain that Renly does intend to invade King’s Landing. It is equally likely that he will attack Casterly Rock and take hold of the Westerlands to secure his victory.” Tyrion countered, eyes squinting at Varys.

The eunuch tittered once more. “Well, it seems that lord Renly has made that decision. He has decided to forgo the Westerlands and attack King’s Landing directly. A host of 40,000 to 60,000 men are marching up the rose road as we speak, my lord hand.” Tyrion felt his face pale. 40,000 men? They had maybe 5000 city watch, and another 5000 goldcloaks, and no more. They had been preparing for a battle, but not one as one-sided as this.

“Lord Varys, since you seem to know so much, have you sent word to my father of this news?”

“Oh yes, of course. I would have told you sooner, my lord, but I wanted to let you have your sleep.” Tyrion groaned audibly this time, feeling Cersei’s smirk against him, even as he refused to look at her.

“Well as you all know, I have tasked the lord commander of the City Watch, Janos Slynt, to hire as many city watch guards as he can, and see to their training. The bastard, Jon Snow has been helping with that. Say what you will about him, but he is good with sword.” Cersei said, smirking once more at Tyrion. Her cold green eyes sparkled with mirth. “I have also asked the pyromancers to step up production of Wildfire, so we may be prepared for the attack.” She finished, swelling with pride.

 _Oh yes, sweet sister, all these things you have done. Tell me, who pays to hire all these guards? Who convinced Jon to help train them? Who devised a plan to use all this Wildfire you had stockpiled under the Red Keep?_ Tyrion clenched and unclenched his fists slowly under the table, looking to his brother for support.

Jaime cleared his throat uncomfortably. He never did well defying Cersei.

Maester Pycelle stared ponderously at Tyrion. “Wildfire? From pyromancers? Is that wise, my lord hand?”

“Nothing was ever wiser. Even with the walls of King’s Landing, 10,000 men cannot hope to defeat 40,000 without divine intervention. That intervention will be our Wildfire.” Tyrion smiled knowingly at Jaime.

“Renly’s men will approach via the rose road, and be held back by the city gates. We have armed each gate with catapults that can vault wildfire. Jaime has been training those men for weeks and they are prepared. Each catapult has been hidden underneath large canvas banners bearing the Lannister sigil. No one but our own goldcloaks know of the plan or of the presence of wildfire in the capital. No one has even talked of wildfire since the Mad King, it will take them all by surprise.” The small council smiled approvingly of Tyrion’s plan.  

“We have also buried caches of wildfire underneath the front of each gate, with tunnels for our men to go down to set them alight. Once a gate seems likely to break, we can set the ground around it alight for 100 meters around, incinerating hundreds of Renly’s men in seconds.” Tyrion smiled at his brother, the glint in his one green eye matching those of his brothers. Lord Varys tittered uncomfortably in his seat.

“Is it wise, my lord hand to rely so much on the pyromancers and their Wildfire? Is it wise to rely on old magics that have long faded?”

“I assure you, Lord Varys, I trust in magic as little as you. But I saw with mine own eyes the damage that Wildfire can do, and I believe in its power, as should you. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you join me in going down to visit the caches?” Tyrion japed, reveling in the discomfort his words had caused Lord Varys.

“No, no, I think not." Varys said, clearly uncomfortable with the notion. "I have also heard word back from Lord Tywin, and he is sending a force back to King’s Landing led by your uncle Kevan.” _How like the spider to save such choice information for the end of the meeting_ , Tyrion thought dryly. “Lord Tywin has sent word to expect 20,000 men any day now. We can only pray that his men arrive at the gates before Renlys.”

Tyrion shifted in his seat. The city was packed with nobility that had gathered for the royal wedding. Renly could not have chosen to attack at a worse time. They were open and vulnerable, and they couldn’t postpone the wedding any more, lest Joffrey’s legitimacy be questioned any more. Being married to Sansa Stark and holding the North would quell the uprising in the Riverlands. And in short order, when things were at peace once more, Tyrion was sure he could broker peace with Dorne too. But he needed time. And control over Joffrey most of all. And that was a fool’s wish.

“But the wedding is tomorrow!” Cersei’s voice cried out harshly. “What if Renly’s men attack during the wedding? How will we keep my sweet boy safe?” Tyrion couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the notion of Joffrey being called a sweet boy.

“You mock me, imp? You have always been such a loathsome creature, why father allowed you to be hand in his stead I’ll never know.” She stormed out in anger, heading towards her chambers.

After the meeting, Tyrion sat collecting his thoughts. He noticed that Varys had stayed behind as well. Varys approached him, taking a seat close to him so they could speak in hushed tones.

“We cannot allow that vile swine to keep ruling this realm as he has been. I had hoped once that Sansa could curb his worst impulses, but instead she seems only to enrage him more. If it weren’t for father, he would have had Ned Stark beheaded, and the realm would be at war as we speak.” Tyrion said quietly to Varys.

“I suppose so. However, it seems to me we’re already at war, we just don’t know it yet.” His eyes sparkled with a knowledge that Tyrion wished he had. “You have surprised me Tyrion. All that I have heard of you is true, you are a small and devious man. But you are calculated, and I rather suspect you would excel here as hand of the king. Perhaps for some other king though.” A small smile pulled across Varys’ face.

“What is that supposed to mean, Lord Varys?” Tyrion felt a lump form in his throat. He disliked Joffrey, but this talk of treason made him feel ill.

“Oh nothing, my lord. Perhaps Renly will attack tomorrow, during the wedding, perhaps not? But either way he will attack soon with all the might of High garden. And when he does, you may find yourself serving a new king.”

Lord Varys stood from his spot, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his soft silk robes, and sauntered from the room. In his wake, a plume of softly scented air hung in the room, smelling vaguely of talcum powder and rose water.

 

 

\--------

 

**Jon**

 

Since returning to King’s Landing, Jon had been put to work training new city watch recruits. He enjoyed the work, training boys to use the sword gave him some semblance of meaning in the meager life that he had been allowed since returning to King’s Landing. It also helped him to train and hone his own skills, as he often set three or four of the recruits against him, telling them war and battle were almost never fair or even. He did feel conflicted though inside, knowing he was training men loyal to the Lannisters, men that would help guard Cersei and Joffrey from their certain deaths at the hand of lord Renly.

Jon had also taken solace in the small moments he had stolen alone with Sansa in the weeks since arriving back to the Red Keep. Some nights they would meet by the Heart Tree and renew their vows before the old gods. Other times, they would pass in the hall, simply allowing their eyes to meet each others. In some ways, those moments were more powerful for him. Knowing the secret they held between them, stealing glances in front of the Kingsguard, for all the world to see, but not know.

He dreamt of reaching out to her, grabbing her small hand in his and pulling her towards him. In his dreams he would pin her against the rough stone of the castle wall, and hold her tightly, taking in her scent. He would find his own release in bed most nights just thinking of the smell of lemons and rosewater, the smell of Sansa.

These small moments were like breaths of fresh air to a drowning man. He would feel that he was going insane, until he felt her hands wrap slowly around his waist as she tried to sneak up on him in the godswood. On some nights, when the moon was new and the woods were dark, he would take her on the forest floor, holding his hand against her mouth to stifle her moans and cries of pleasure. Just thinking of the sounds that came from her mouth sent him into a spiral of desire.

How could the woman that he loved, that he was bound to, be marrying that monster tomorrow? How had their lives become this?

As Tyrion had told him to expect, when Jon came back from killing the Mountain, he was told that it hadn’t been enough to prove his loyalty to the crown. And besides, it hadn’t been him to deal the killing blow, it had been Sandor Clegane who had done that.

“ _What kind of knight lets a dog do his dirty work?”_ Jaime had taunted him. _“No true knight would allow such a thing to happen.”_

So Jon had acquiesced when they asked him to aid Janos Slynt in training the new men of the City Watch. And Jon had done so, without question, despite how much he despised Janos Slynt.

Even worse, when Jon had asked if he could at least be named Sansa’s sworn shield, Jaime had merely laughed at him.

 _“What more would you have of me, Ser Jaime?”_ _he had asked, his voice thick with anger._

_“I would have you prove to me that you are loyal to the Lannisters, as well as Sansa. When Renly attacks King’s Landing, you will fight to protect the walls. You will fight for Sansa, for your life, for all our lives.”_

Jon looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them into fists. He looked over the training yard, at the men he was training to kill those who could be Sansa’s saviours. What was he really doing here? Was he keeping Sansa safe, or condemning her to a fate of being married to Joffrey? The thought made him nauseous.

**\--**

Jon watched Sansa walk up the aisle of the Sept of Baelor, in a beautiful dress of green silk with gold brocade trim. The tail of the dress extended back 20 feet, and was so richly appointed with beading and embroidery it must have cost a fortune to make. Years ago, the knowledge that she would be wearing this dress, about to marry a king would have made Sansa happier than anything else in the world. Now though, she looked as though she were about to cry.

He had been relegated to the back of the Sept, though Jon supposed he should just be glad he was allowed to witness the wedding at all. As he watched Sansa climb the steps towards Joffrey, he balled his hands into his fists, allowing his nails to dig into the flesh of his palm.

He looked upon the simpering face of King Joffrey, as he placed his Lannister cloak around Sansa, not the Baratheon cloak. How anyone could still believe that Joffrey was a Baratheon was surprising to Jon. They all made themselves so obvious.

In that moment, as the cloak was fastened around her neck, Sansa looked out into the crowd, her eyes searching for his. She met his gaze for only a moment, allowing her fear and sadness show through. In that moment, Jon wished he could have done more to protect her. He should have stolen her away in the middle of the night, damn the consequences.

After the vows were said, and Sansa and Joffrey were wed, it was time for the festivities to begin. The wedding feast was to consist of 77 courses, and a massive pigeon pie. Jon had not been given a seat at the table, and sufficed to stand off to the side, watching Joffrey grow ever drunker. Sansa’s cheeks had begun to blaze red with embarrassment.

“Uncle! UNCCLEE!” Joffrey’s screeching voice rang out over the din of the celebration, piercing through all revelry. Jon’s gaze turned to Tyrion, who looked as weary as Jon felt.

“Uncle, come see, I have arranged a special show just for us!” Joffrey’s voice rang out clear, causing the guests to look in closer to the front of the celebration. In that moment, three dwarves came running out onto the dancefloor, pretending to ride horses. One was dressed as King Joffrey, wearing a crown, and covered in red and gold. The other two were meant to be Renly and Stannis, though one was absurdly bald, and the other was dressed all in rainbow colouring.

“Come see everyone, it is the battle of the Baratheons” Joffrey said, with glee in his voice.

The dwarves picked up miniature lances and began to try to unhorse each other, Renly poking Stannis in the rear more than would ever be considered appropriate. The crowd was laughing along with Joffrey, but only he, Sansa, and Tyrion sat wide-eyed at the spectacle in front of them.

The joust ended when the dwarf Joffrey unhorsed both Stannis and Renly, and was crowned Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. The guests applauded and laughed, and Joffrey stood bowing, soaking up their praise.  Tyrion and Jon looked to each other, sharing a pained look of sympathy for each other.

Later that evening, as Sansa was dancing with little Tommen, Jon busied himself clearing tables. He found it was easier to be invisible when you looked to be one of the servants. Jon stilled as he saw Joffrey began to saunter over to him, drunkenly.

“I hear you wish to be Sansa’s sworn shield, or a member of the Kingsguard.” Joffrey said, smirking. “Well bastard, if you wish to be her dog, I will treat you as such. Tonight, you will stand guard outside the bed chamber while I take your half-sister’s maidenhead.”

Jon felt his fists clench up tighter than they ever had before. He no longer heard the words coming from Joffrey’s mouth. Instead, he heard the rush of blood passing by his ears, as he strained to keep himself from attacking the drunk boy in front of him. The boy who was a bastard same as him, but who held everything he never knew he wanted. The lord of the seven kingdoms. Jon found a peace within himself as he pictured Joffrey’s surprise to find Sansa would have no maidenhead to give. That thought held him through the rest of the evening, but could not keep him calm as he walked up to the suite of rooms belonging to the King.

Jon passed by guards that lined the hallways up the steps of Maegor’s holdfast. As he passed by each one, feeling once more as though he were marching to his own death, each guard nodded slightly at him, dipping their lowered helms respectfully. Jon was taken aback by their deference, something the goldcloaks had never shown him.

As he approached the bedchambers, he heard the sounds of Joffrey and Sansa being carried up to their bedchambers as part of the bedding ceremony. The thought of Sansa being stripped down by beastly men, grabbing and tearing at the rich fabric of her dress set Jon alight once more with anger. This time, he could not contain it.

Jon felt his face darkening, felt his hand begin to reach for his sword hilt against his own wishes. He was possessed by his own anger, and could not stop himself. He would kill Joffrey before he laid a hand on Sansa. He would kill each and every man who had helped to rip her wedding dress from her body. They would have their revenge, even if it meant his own death.

A hand reached out and pressed down on Jon’s own, pushing his sword back in it’s sheath.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jon.” Jon whirred around to see Jaime looking at him with sympathy in his perfect green eyes. He was wearing his white cloak and Kingsguard armour, which seemed to shimmer in the light from the brazier.

“I, I, I wasn’t going to” Jon managed to stammer. Jaime simply shook his head, a sad smile on his face.

“I won’t allow him to do to you what Robert once did to me. You will not be here tonight, no one should have to suffer in that way." Jaime paused, looking down at Jon, and placed his hand on Jon's shoulder. "I think you should go now Jon. I will stand guard for you.”

Jon sank with relief, until he saw Jaime meet his gaze pointedly. Then Jon thought of Jaime’s words, of what Robert had made Jaime listen to, and the clarity came to Jon. The colour drained from his face, and he felt as though he were about to vomit.

“Cheer up Jon, we’re family now, and as long as you protect your whole family, all of them, your secret is safe with me.” Jaime clapped him on the back, and turned away to watch his son being dragged up the stairs to the bedchambers by a gaggle of giggling women.

Jon watched as they passed by, a smirk plastered on Joffrey’s face. Then he saw Sansa being carried by a throng of men, dressed only in her shift. He felt trapped, a wolf surrounded by hungry lions. In that moment, he could no longer conceive of an escape for him and Sansa. He stood frozen, torn between wanting to rescue Sansa, and wanting to run away as fast as he could so he wouldn’t have to hear her suffering.

“You really should be going now, Jon.” 

Ashamed, tears streaming down his face, Jon ran down the stairs of Maegor’s holdfast, and away from Sansa. He didn’t know why, but he found himself running to Sansa’s chambers, finding solace in her scent lingering in her bed. He laid there for a time, cursing himself for the craven that he was. Cursing himself for allowing that little monster to have his Sansa, his love, his wife. Jon turned his face into the pillow hoping it could absorb his anguished cries, and sending out a silent wish that the old gods would not allow Joffrey to consummate a false marriage.

 

\-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me for ending this chapter on a cliffhanger!


	11. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is wedded to Joffrey Baratheon, Renly Baratheon attacks King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise no more cliffhangers from here on out <3

**Sansa**

 

Sansa stood at the top of the steps of the Sept of Baelor. In front of her stood Joffrey and the high septon, looking expectantly at her. In his hands, Joffrey held an elegant red cloak embroidered with golden lions. That would be the cloak he would soon drape over her shoulders, the cloak that was supposed to represent protection. Sansa walked slowly to the high septon, standing face to face with Joffrey. His wormy pink lips curled into a charade of a smile, his deep green eyes twinkling with some queer combination of excitement and malice. She looked down at her hands to find that they were shaking. _What would be the worst they could do to me if I ran right now?_ Sansa thought desperately.

 _They would catch me, they would beat me bloody, they would hurt Jon…_ Sansa looked carefully into the crowd, her eyes searching for those raven curls, those dark grey eyes. Her breath halted in her lungs as she came upon his eyes, looking as sad and desperate as she felt.

She knew she could not cry, but she found she could not feign a smile either. She sufficed to adopt the mask she had long ago honed, one of quiet complacency.

Sansa stood still as a statue throughout the ceremony, until the septon called on her to say her vows. Her mouth was dry and her voice hoarse. Her tongue was tied as she stumbled through the words, the words she had already said to another.

“With this kiss,” Sansa paused, her eyes looking away from Joffrey and to Jon once more. “I pledge my love.” She said quietly, her voice low and solemn. She looked away from Jon, and back towards Joffrey. It was too much, this was more than she could take. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear his terrible cloak from around her shoulders. But she did none of that, she knew she could not disgrace the Lannisters, not here, not now.

 

\--

 

At the feast later, Sansa found herself staring at the wine goblets in front of her. Maybe, just maybe, Joffrey could get too drunk tonight, and she could delay her fate for one more night. It was a silly childish plan, but she found that there was little else she could think to do. One more night free of Joffrey was as good a plan as she had to hold on to.

So Sansa busied herself as he feasted and gifts were passed onto them, ensuring that his goblet was always filled. When he seemed to slow down, Sansa would tell stories of her brothers and uncles, and all the wine they would drink after battle. Joffrey never could stand to have anyone be better at anything than him.

By the time the 70th course was laid before them, Joffrey was well and truly drunk. He could no longer stop from slurring his words and found everything around him to be a merry jape. He had stood to dance awhile ago, leaving Sansa in peace and to her thoughts. Sansa let out a quiet sigh of relief, and found herself searching the crowd for Jon. He was nowhere in sight. The thought brought her sadness, but if she were him she would not be able to bear to watch this farce take place herself.

It wasn’t much longer before the musicians stopped mid-song in reply to the heckles of the crowd. They were calling for the bedding ceremony to commence. Sansa felt her heart sink, as though she were falling from the top of the Red Keep and there was no one to save her. She looked around to find herself surrounded by the men of the court, their eyes filled with a greedy sort of lust.

Her heart filled with terror, and she looked around for help. She found Tyrion’s mismatched eyes watching her, and saw the concern in his eyes.

“Men, you are looking at a 16 year old girl. I trust you will find a way to think of your daughters, and how you would have them treated as you walk her up to her marriage bed.” He said, his voice full of menace, his hands grasping a wine goblet so tight his fingers were turning white.

The men looked from Sansa to Tyrion, and carefully hoisted her up and up to her chambers. While they certainly were eager to tear her wedding gown from her body, not a single man tried to grab at her as she had been warned. No man tried to pull her shift from her body, and once more she felt thankful for Tyrion’s influence.

As they walked her up the steps to Joffrey’s chambers, Sansa gazed at the goldcloaks that lined the staircase. Each man had his helm down and nodded curtly towards her as the throng climbed upwards. It was only when they came to the top of the stairs that Sansa came almost face to face with Jon, who stood stolid beside Jaime outside her bedchamber door.

It looked as though Jaime was speaking quietly with him, though Sansa could not make out the words. When Jon saw her, held up in the arms of the throng of men dressed only in her shift, she saw a look of agony cross his face. The moment was almost surreal, as he ran past her, tears welling in his eyes.

It was hard watching him run from her, and she felt an emptiness within her heart. It felt almost like abandonment, yet a part of her was thankful. Had Joffrey ordered Jon to be here, to listen to the consummation? The thought made her nauseous, but she was given no time to process it as the men carried her past the doors of the bedchamber and threw her down onto the bed, beside a very drunk Joffrey.

Sansa looked upon her _husband_ , upon the boy with silken blonde hair that she had once adored and admired. Now his clothing was wrinkled and disheveled, and his lips were stained purple with wine. He could barely keep his eyes open, for which Sansa said a silent thanks to the old gods.

“Did ya see Jon out there Sans? I put him there jus for you” he slurred out, his macabre smile appearing once more.

Sansa looked upon the drunken King, as his Queen, and couldn’t help but start to giggle. Joffrey began to redden and sputter as he heard her giggling at him. Sansa found she could no longer contain herself from the ridiculous scene before her, at the fact that she was now Queen as she had always wanted, but it was such a hollow victory. It reminded her of the flavour of an overripe plum, sickeningly sweet, a faint flavour of incoming rot.

“You wilnt laugh at me woman” he slurred out, reaching out to grab at her, but she twirled easily from his reach.

“You may have me tomorrow, and for all our days to come, but not tonight”, she laughed darkly, overcome with her minute victory.

In that moment, Sansa heard a heavy crash from outside the chamber, and the sound of Jaime’s voice ring out clearly.

“Halt, in the name of the King!”

Sansa stopped suddenly in place, frozen. She looked carefully over to Joffrey, who had frozen like her. It sounded as though a struggle were taking place outside the chamber. She heard the sounds of metal clashing metal, and the grunts of Jaime as he was fighting off an unknown enemy.

Who would deign to attack the king on his wedding night, with his bride in the chambers? Sansa's heart began to beat out of her chest, and she wished more than anything that Jon had stayed and was here to protect her. She felt certain these men were here to kill both of them.

It was when she heard a final earsplitting crack against the chamber door that she knew it was over and she began to cry softly. She noticed that Joffrey too had begun to cry, and for the first time since Nymeria had clenched his arm in her jaws she saw fear in his eyes. It wasn’t the triumphant feeling that Sansa had expected to feel. Instead, she felt pity, that the two of them should die in such a way.

The chamber doorknob twisted slowly, and the great heavy door creaked open even slower. Sansa gasped when she saw 20 goldcloaks rushing in. _Are we saved?_ She thought, confusedly. It was only when she saw them continue to stream forward that the realization dawned on her. When had the goldcloaks ever had their helms down in the Red Keep? When had the goldcloaks ever nodded at her or even acknowledged her existence?

They streamed forward, invading the confines of the chamber, and encircled the king. His eyes were hooded with drink and confusion, his crown had toppled from his head and clanged to the floor.

“Stop in the name of the king! I said stop!” He cried out shrilly, his voice cracking with fear.

A goldcloak lifted his helm and looked Joffrey in the eyes. He unsheathed his sword carefully and placed it over Joffrey’s heart. “We don’t serve you, bastard.” Sansa saw the man’s face curl into a smile, as he pushed the tip of the sword into Joffrey’s heart. “King Renly sends his regards” the man finished, as blood began to pour from the wound, and gurgle up Joffrey’s throat.

Another goldcloak looked over at Sansa. “What do we do with the Stark girl?”

“Leave her be, she’s of no concern to us. The marriage was not consummated. Let her go to her mother, or bring her to King Renly.” The first man finished, pulling the sword from Joffrey’s chest. The king collapsed to the floor, a puddle of blood extending out from his fallen body.

Sansa looked at Joffrey, then at the men that surrounded them. These were Renly’s men. Was Renly friend or foe? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t know when she had collapsed to the floor, but quickly gathered herself together and stood up. Sansa looked to the door, a clear path was open. She looked wildly at the men around her, and then ran as fast as she could from the room, from Joffrey’s chambers, and down the tower. She ran past Jaime Lannister, who lay crumpled against the floor. _Was he breathing? Was he alive?_ It didn’t matter now.

She ran down the tower stairs, past the bodies of slain goldcloaks, leaving bloody footprints in her wake.  Her feet scrambled for purchase on the cold stone steps as she ran down them. Around her she heard the sounds of battle; men screaming and yelling.

In the air, she smelled blood, thick and metallic. Her hair stood on the back of her neck.

_Jon. Jon, where are you?_

She told herself that she would just stop in her chambers for a minute, just long enough to dress and find shoes. Then she would find him. But she was afraid, of being caught, of what was happening, and her chambers were safe and warm.

Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, and she could taste blood from her lungs and the exertion of running. _Ladies don’t run, Sansa_ , the old voice of Septa Mordane called out from the past. She wished she had run more as a child, she wished she had done so much differently.

As she ran, she thought of Arya and Bran and little Rickon. She thought of Lady and Nymeria, and her father. She thought of all her regrets and all the things she would set right if she survived this night. And Jon. Sweet, kind Jon. Jon who had stood by her and kept her safe. Jon who had absorbed beatings for her. Jon who held her tight in his arms while she cried, and he never cried. But he was crying tonight.

Tears began to stream down her face as she entered the hallway of her chambers. She would find him, and they would run. Now. Together.

Sansa opened the door to her chamber, and ran into a man, his hands holding her tight in the pitch black. She began to scream, and he placed his hand over her mouth to quiet her. She began to struggle, trying desperately to get free. _After everything, it can’t end like this._

“Sansa” the voice rasped, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Jon!” she cried out, reaching her hands out to feel for him, catching his soft curls in her hands. She pulled his head to hers and fell into him, placing soft kisses all over his face.

“I’m so sorry I left you, I never should have left you there alone.” He spat out, holding her tight to him. “How are you here? What is happening outside?”

“Renly.” It was the only word she could breathe out, and it was all Jon needed to hear. He grabbed his sword from its sheath in one hand, and clasped Sansa’s hand in his other.

“Joffrey?”

“He’s dead, killed before he could…” her voice drifted off.

“Shh sweet girl, it’s going to be okay.” He said softly. “We’re going home now.”

They ran together from the chamber and down the corridor. The air was alive with the sounds of battle, the sky no longer black, but red with flames. As they passed by and glimpsed the walls of the city, they saw plumes of green smoke and fire erupting into the night, sending dark shadows against the walls of the castle. The sounds of men shouting and screaming assaulted Sansa’s ears, and Jon’s grip felt like a vice on her hand.

They ran down the steps towards the dungeons, unsure of where else to go.

“Arya once told me there was a way out of the castle here, we must find it” she cried out as they slowed to a jog. “She said it was somewhere past the dragon skulls.”

“Indeed, it is.” A voice called out from the darkness. Jon pulled her behind him, facing his sword into the darkness.

“Show yourself, who are you?” He called out, his voice strong and clear.

“Oh me? I am merely a servant of the realm.” A voice drawled out, and Lord Varys hobbled out from the darkness, his head covered in a rotted old cloak. He smelt of mold and mildew, and the only way that Sansa could recognize him was by his voice and his piercing eyes. “Come now, little wolves, it’s time you get home, don’t you think?” He asked, beckoning them forward.

Sansa and Jon paused, wary of the man before them. “I told you Sansa, that you would not marry Joffrey if you did not wish it, that you would not be queen if you did not wish it. I have followed through on those promises. Your marriage was not consummated, and it will be annulled. Come now child, you must trust me. We must be quick.” He beckoned once more.

Sansa looked to Jon, unsure of whether Varys could be trusted. But they didn’t have any other options, not now, not with the war raging above them. Reluctantly, she put her hand on Jon’s arm, pulling his sword down from Varys. “Why are you helping us?” She asked, hesitantly.

Lord Varys tittered softly, smiling at them. “How many times must I tell you Sansa? I serve the realm, not the Lannisters, and not the Baratheons. The realm needs justice, and peace. Returning you to the north will help restore that peace. Now come, quickly, we are running out of time.”

Reluctantly, Sansa and Jon fell in line behind Lord Varys, as he escorted them further down into the depths of the dungeons. They passed by dragon skulls, Jon quietly staring at the skull of Balerion the black dread. The light of Vary's torch played queer tricks on their eyes, and it felt as though the empty eye sockets of the massive skull followed them as they walked past. 

They came out into a small cavern, into what must be a sea cave formed by the ocean pushing against the cliffs the Red Keep was built on.

“This cavern leads to a small inlet. There you will find a boat moored. Go as quickly as you can, and do not stop rowing.”

Sansa stopped, and looked back at Lord Varys. “Thank you, Lord Varys, I can never begin to thank you for this kindness you’ve done us.”

He tittered softly once more and bowed his head, smiling. “Remember that in the coming years, Lady Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, the battle for KL has become an absolute beast, and it made sense to leave this Sansa POV as a standalone to avoid a 10,000 word chapter =)


	12. The Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for King's Landing commences, Tyrion finds himself playing a larger role than he ever imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a couple weeks since I last updated, so to refresh; Joffrey and Sansa were married, but before the marriage was consummated, goldcloaks rushed in and murdered him. Jon and Sansa have escaped King's Landing with the help of Varys, and Renly has begun his attack.

**Tyrion**

 

Tyrion stood atop a parapet in the Red Keep, looking out over King’s Landing. He had been walking the walls since Sansa and Joffrey had been taken to their chambers for the bedding ceremony. Watching men thrice her age scramble to undress her had been too disturbing to watch, it had taken his mind to a dark place, to thoughts he tried to avoid.

He excused himself soon after, hoping to clear his mind atop the parapets. Instead, he found a view that disturbed him beyond measure. Thousands of men bearing the Baratheon sigil had begun to parade into view beyond the gates of King’s Landing. Tyrion had hoped the ravens were wrong, had hoped that Renly would have the courtesy to at least wait until after the royal wedding, but they were not so lucky.

 _It serves us right, I suppose, after that awful business with King Robert._ Though he did not condone the actions that Cersei had taken to protect her children, he still understood why she had done what she had done. Cersei loved no one, except her children, and she would do anything to protect them. Had Robert found out the truth, well, Tyrion didn’t want to think of what would have happened to sweet little Tommen and Myrcella, though he probably would have relished what Robert would have done to Joffrey.

What disturbed Tyrion most about the men gathering outside the walls of King’s Landing was that they had been approaching from two separate directions, flanking the city, and spreading out the already thin goldcloaks. There must be over 50,000 men approaching all the gates simultaneously. Then there was Jaime. _Where in the seven hells is Jaime?_

Tyrion was no leader, he inspired no one to chivalry or gallantry. He was always much more comfortable in the background, helping to plan and think. Who needs the strength to carry a battleaxe when your brain is just as sharp? But without Jaime, who would lead the goldcloaks? Who would command the Lannister men to release the wildfire? He had never ridden into battle, he had never even fought a man.

But if not Jaime, who would lead these men? Janos Slynt. Tyrion shuddered at the thought. No, that would not do at all.

Tyrion thought of the whore he had taken to visiting at Chataya’s brothel, despite his father’s wishes. He hadn’t meant to dishonour or disobey Lord Tywin, but he found himself compelled, drawn to Aliyaya’s bed. The first time, he had been desperately drunk, and he had finished within her in a minute. But she had been kind, and soft, and gentle, and Tyrion found himself in her bed once more, and once more again the next night. There was no girl who was as sweet and kind as Aliyaya in all of King’s Landing.

And she was beautiful too, her voice was soft and exotic, with a slight accent of the Summer Isles. Her skin was dark, soft, and supple, and she had an innocence to her that no whore had any right to. He felt addicted to her scent and her eyes, and her sweet, soft skin. But what kept him coming back was how when they finished their lovemaking, she would reach over to her night table, and pull out a book and read to him. He could lie there for hours, listening to her recite the history of Aegon the conqueror, and he had, on many occasions.

The thought that should the walls of King’s Landing fall, she would no longer be safe made him deeply uncomfortable. Whores were not treated kindly during the sacking of a city.  

_Seven hells, where is Jaime?_

Tyrion heard a commotion coming from inside Maegor’s holdfast. Shouts echoed out from the direction of Joffrey’s chambers, and a dark fear consumed Tyrion.

“You there! Go inside and find out what has happened”, Tyrion called out to the closest goldcloak. The man ran off as quickly as he could. Tyrion looked off into the distance and saw Renly’s host drawing ever nearer. _Do I stay here, or do I go to the city walls?_

He knew what his gut told him to do, that a dwarf could do no good in war. And yet, what would come of them all if the city were sacked? What right did Renly have to the accursed iron throne? He swallowed hard, biting down the bile that hung heavy in his throat.

“Alright men, half of you head for Joffrey’s chambers to keep the king safe. The rest of you, with me.” Tyrion gathered up all the strength and courage within himself, more than he ever thought he had. “Tonight, we will all feast on venison!”

 

\--

 

Tyrion found himself heading for the armoury. Once there, his squire Podrick outfitted him in armour to fit his disfigured body. Pieces from one suit or another were cobbled together to cover him. Tyrion wished he had his armour from Casterly Rock. The armour that was finely and richly crafted. The armour that had cost his lord father a fortune to custom make for his body. The armour he had never worn.

The guard he had originally sent to the holdfast arrived in the armoury before Tyrion was fully armoured. He was panting, his eyes wild and his hands covered in blood. “It’s Joffrey, my lord, the king.” The man stuttered, looking down at his bloody hands. “The king, the king, the king…” he continued to chant, his hands now trembling in the air.

Tyrion felt his stomach lurch. He had wanted Joffrey _dealt_ with, but not like this, not to his own nephew. A darker thought then possessed him. _If the king is dead, then who is king?_ Tyrion groaned.

_W_ _hy not moonboy for all the good it does us._

“Look at me, look at me now”, he commanded of the man. “What is your name?”

The man stuttered, and looked at Tyrion, unsure. “Addam, my lord.”

“Addam, you will tell no one what you have seen. You saw nothing amiss, the king is safe in Maegor’s, you hear me?” Tyrion paused, looking at the man, waiting for the understanding in his eyes. It took longer than Tyrion wished for the man’s expression to change.

“Aye my lord, as you say”, Addam said carefully, looking down at his feet. Even they were caked in blood.

Tyrion paused, looking at the man. “Was Jaime there?”

“Aye, my lord. He – that is to say – he was – I believe he is unconscious. I left him with other men and came straight to you.”

Tyrion pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. This wouldn’t do at all. A dead king and an army with no leader. Where was Lord Tywin when he needed him? Tyrion turned and looked at the dozen dumbstruck guards around him.

“We ride for the gates, now. If any of you see the Kingsguard, send them to me. Until then, send word to each man on the walls. It’s time.” Tyrion paused, looking at Addam.

“And you, Addam. I think you should see to Ser Jaime, and make sure he is well. There is no need for anyone else to see you in such a state.”

Tyrion turned away, placing his helm onto his head, and headed to the stables as fast as his legs would take him. He’d be damned if he let Janos Slynt ruin all his hard work and careful planning.

 

\--

 

Tyrion stood atop the River gate of King’s Landing, in front of Renly’s host. At the front was the usurper himself, atop a fine chestnut destrier. His armour shone bright, new and expertly crafted. Atop his head sat a crown of golden antlers. _And here I am in mismatched armour._

“Renly! Surely you haven’t come here to take your own nephew’s throne! Have you gone mad with greed?” Tyrion called down to the man whom he had once called his goodbrother.

Renly smiled up at Tyrion, his teeth flashing white and neatly aligned. “Ah, Tyrion, Joffrey was no kin of mine. But you already knew that, didn’t you? And you already know he is dead by now too, don’t you?” He called out loudly, his eyes catching the light of the fires atop the walls.

“Do your men know that Tyrion? Do they know they’re fighting for an empty throne? Do they know they’re dying for a women who fucks her own brother?”

Tyrion bristled, but he could not show weakness. He did not even deign to look to his men, they would hold fast, they had to. “Better than a king who can’t even fuck his own bride,” He retorted, hearing the snorts of his own men.

“I would have spared you Tyrion, but not now. You’ve chosen your side, and you chose wrong.”

“It’s never wrong to choose to protect those you love.” He shot back, his mismatched eyes piercing into the young man’s soul. But who was he speaking of, who was he protecting? He thought of Cersei, of Jaime, of Aliyaya, of sweet little Tommen and Myrcella. _Is it love, or is it pride?_ _Is it duty, or is it honour?_

Renly signaled for his men to begin their attack. Archers notched their bows. A wave hit the air, the sound cutting through the din. While the arrows were launched, Renly took the opportunity to retreat to safety. Tyrion called out to his men, “Shields up!”

When the volley ended, Tyrion knew it was time. “Men, catapults now!” he yelled out, carrying the message down along the lines. Jars of wildfire were loaded onto each catapult and aimed into the throng of men.

“Loose”, Tyrion called out, and dozens of jars of wildfire launched in the air, exploding as they hit the ground. In an instant the air was alive with screams and the small of burning flesh. Hundreds of men fell to the ground, writhing and crying in pain. Green flames erupted from all around, casting the whole scene in a ghostly green pallor.

Bells began to toll all around them, signalling the beginning of the siege.

 _The things we do for power, and the things we do for love_ , Tyrion thought grimly. _How often they seem to be at odds with one another._

He hoped his lord father was on the way.

 

\--

 

Despite being horrendously outnumbered, each catapult of wildfire was taking out a hundred men, and they hadn’t even had to set off any of the underground caches yet.

Even then though, Renly’s men kept advancing, pouring towards the walls. Ladders had begun to be leaned against the walls, faster than they could be pushed over, or set alight. Half of Renly's force had set forward to advance on the King’s gate, hoping to spread the goldcloaks thin. It was a good plan, Tyrion had to admit, one he would have done as well if he would have had the men.

Tyrion was alone in command, Janos Slynt having huffed off in a hurry after Tyrion’s brusque dismissal of him. _No doubt he’s slunk back to Maegor’s Holdfast with his tail between his legs._

“You there, what is your name?” He called out to the most senior goldcloak he could find.

“Ser Jacelyn Bywater, my lord. I am captain of this gate.”

“Ser Jacelyn, I pass on the gate to you. If Renly’s men get close to breaking down the gate, set off the wildfire cache below. I am going to the King’s gate.”

“Aye, my lord.” The man nodded his head stiffly, turning back to the fray.

Tyrion ran as fast as he could along the walls, trying to get to the gate as fast as he could. As he arrived at the King’s gate, he found some men scaling the walls, while others had begun to prepare rams for breaking open the gate. He was disappointed to find that many city guards had simply run from their posts. His own Lannister men stood by the catapults, frozen in place.

“Fire the catapults!” He shouted out hysterically to the men in front of him “NOW!” He added, finally spurring them to action. A rush of movement passed before him as men loaded jars of wildfire and sent them into the host in front of them.

“You there! Stop standing around and take down those ladders!” Men tore themselves from the scene in front of them and began to lean over the walls, pushing down ladders. Some men who had leaned over never came back up, pulled over the walls or shot down by arrows. The sounds of their anguished cries as they fell from the walls sent shivers down his spine.

Tyrion watched as his small force of men slowly dwindled. Some had been taken down by arrows, others by Renly’s men scaling the wall. There were fewer than two score men left to hold the gate against a force of nearly ten thousand. Tyrion ground his teeth together, considering his options. Had he only had more men, had his lord father arrived in time, had Jaime been here…

He looked at the scene before him, at a battering ram that was being pushed towards the gate, and he swallowed hard. He was out of options, it was time to let loose the cache below the gate. The thought brought forth dread within himself. He had made calculations based on what the alchemists had told him and felt confident that the cache he had carefully stowed beneath the gate would only cause an explosion sufficient to decimate Renly’s force around the wall. Yet, he felt a gnawing in his gut, what if his calculations were wrong? It was when Tyrion heard the battering ram begin to pound against the King’s gate that he finally brought himself to action.

“You there”, he called out to a Lannister soldier.

“Aye, my lord?” The man answered, dipping his head low.

“Do you remember what you have been told, about the cache under the gate?” The man swallowed hard, shuffling his feet. Tyrion lifted his helm and fixed his mismatched eyes onto the man. The man met his gaze slowly, reluctantly.

“Aye, my lord.”

“You will go down now, and you will light the cache. We are abandoning this gate.” Tyrion said, hoping he could trust this man to do his duty. The man looked at him dully, clearly aware that he was heading to his own death. Tyrion sighed, and tried a different approach. “Do you have family?”

The man looked scared, swallowing hard as he nodded. “Aye, my lord. I have a wife and a daughter.” Tyrion nodded, resigned.

“What are their names, and where do they live?”

“My wife is named Bethany, and my daughter is Jeyne. They live in Silverhill, we serve House Serrett.” The man’s eyes were wet and watery. Tyrion did not relish what he had to do next, but this was war, and he would not let Renly and his smirking face win King’s Landing. The sounds of cracking, splintering wood sent the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on edge.

“Go down now and set off the cache. I will make sure your wife and daughter are taken care of for the rest of their days." He paused. "Remember, a Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion finished, wishing he could place his hand on the young man’s shoulder for comfort. Instead, he turned back to Renly’s host, and then called down to his men to retreat. The Lannister soldier ran towards the inner gate, to a door that would lead to the underground tunnel.

Tyrion himself ran as fast as his short legs would take him, along the wall back to the River gate. He had calculated that the cache should explode outwards 100 feet in each direction but did not want to take any chances. He instructed his men to keep back several hundred feet and had evacuated the townsfolk farther into the city days ago.

It was the sound he heard first, a loud hissing in the air. Then a bright, blinding light burst forth from the gate before him, nearly blinding him. The light was such a bright green that it almost seemed white. It lit up the entire scene before him. Tyrion looked to see his own men frozen in fear, staring at the light. An instant later, he felt the shockwave burst forward, sending him flying to the ground. He saw the gate disintegrate, along with a hundred feet of wall on either side. The sounds of men screaming burst forth in all directions, followed by the sound of the blast, reaching his ears. The sound deafened him, leaving him lying on the ground confused and disoriented.

His limbs felt heavy as lead, and the ringing in his ears would not subside. Dully, he felt a pain in his chest, as though it wasn't even his own. He looked up to the night sky then, watching the stars twinkle and blink in and out of focus. He found himself fixed on the Ice Dragon high in the sky. Its blue eye winked down at him, beckoning him forth. He thought of the myth of the Ice Dragon he had read of. A great creature, bigger than Balerion the Dread, made of living ice.

He felt himself slipping from something, though he couldn’t be sure from what. He couldn’t move, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see anything but that blue eye staring at him. _I’ll just close my eyes for a second, just for a second, until the earth stops spinning._

But when he closed his eyes, Tyrion still saw the Ice Dragon, and its pale blue eye fixed on him.

 

\---------

 

**Jaime**

 

Jaime awoke with a pounding headache. He lifted his hand to his head to find himself completely clad in his enameled white scale armour, his helm on his head. _Was I in battle? What was I fighting for?_

He peeled the helm from his head, eyes adjusting to the scene before him. Men lay dead everywhere, the floor stained red with blood. A couple men stood in the doorway of the chamber before him, talking in hushed tones. _Joffrey’s chamber. I was standing guard for Joffrey, for his wedding night._

His eyes focused on the men before him, they were Kingsguard as well. _Bloody terrible Kingsguard, couldn’t even guard us from attack on his wedding night,_ Jaime thought grimly. Then a terrible thought came to his mind, and he looked towards the chamber closer, noting the door had been hacked open. He saw a thin pool of blood within the chamber, and his face paled. _Joffrey._

He struggled to get himself upright, finding his limbs leaden and full of ache. _Joffrey._ _Our son, our firstborn son._ Jaime pulled his body up to a sitting position, ignoring the screaming pain in his head. _Cersei._

By the time Jaime had pulled himself to standing, the two men had turned towards him, revealing themselves as Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. Their bodies shielded the chamber from Jaime’s view, as he tried to look inside.

“Lord Commander, you do not want to look inside.” Ser Meryn said bluntly. “Your – ahem – your nephew, the king….”

Jaime pushed the men from the doorway and lumbered inside. Joffrey lay in a pool of blood, skin cool and blue. He felt a small tinge of sadness and guilt, then fear. _Cersei._

“Where is Cersei? Is she safe? What of Tommen and Myrcella?” Jaime barked out to his men. The two men looked at each other, then back at the dead king.

“They’re all safe deep in Maegor’s holdfast, my lord.” Ser Boros replied.

“And so was Joffrey, until he wasn’t.” Jaime ripped the mailed glove from his hand, and placed it on his son’s head, pulling a strand of hair from his face. _Cersei._ Every cell of his body was calling for her, begging for her. But he couldn’t, not yet. Not until he avenged her. “Who did this?”

The two men shuffled uncomfortably in their armour. “We believe it was Renly, my lord. He snuck his men in masquerading as Goldcloaks. We hired so many in the past weeks…” Jaime shot a look at the men that indicated finishing the sentence would seal their own.

“You two, go and ensure the safety of Cersei and Tommen. Tommen is now your King.” Jaime grit his teeth in anger. “You will protect this king with your lives, or I shall make sure you die as well.”

Jaime turned, grabbing his helmet, and ran from the holdfast. As he ran to the stables, his heart pounded heavy in his ears, the sound of rushing blood loud and disorienting. Each beat of his heart seemed to be saying Cersei over and over again, until he thought he may be going mad.

He picked the largest destrier he could find and jumped on it, not needing a saddle for this mission. He would kill Renly. He must kill Renly, or Cersei would never forgive him. He burst forth, galloping down the street towards the southern gates. As he left the Red Keep and entered the main streets, he found them empty and eerily quiet. It was a stark contrast to the gates themselves, which were glowing with green flames, screams and shouts ringing loud into the air.

He saw then in the distance a sea of red and gold moving forward towards Renly’s host. Jaime found himself smiling, despite everything, and dug his heels into the horse’s side. His lord father’s men had made it just in time. He rode faster then, towards the ruin of the King’s gate.

He galloped forward on the destrier through the ruin of the gate, passing through the piles of rubble and burnt bodies. Small green fires still burned in places as Jaime rode through, seemingly possessed. Jaime knew he looked a mess, his armour stained red with his son’s blood, and a cut on his forehead had reopened and was slowly gushing. It obscured his vision slightly through the helm, causing him to abandon it completely.

He rode into the chaos before him, a flank of his men growing on either side of him. Tyrion had held them off long enough, the city would not fall tonight, and never to Renly.

Jaime and his men burst forth, cutting down all men in their way. _No man comes between another man and his justice_. He felt possessed, his sword moving as though it knew his mission, his intent. It took another hour before he had cut down his way to the centre of the host, and to Renly himself. His men had him cornered, a stag surrounded by lions. Instead of the fear that Jaime wished to see upon Renly’s face, instead he saw only defiance and amusement.

“Tell me Jaime, what hurts more? That under your watch once more a king was killed, or that it was your son?”

Jaime thought of the mad king, of all of the things he had stood by and watched. He thought of the life he had given up by joining the Kingsguard. He thought of the only honour that he had left, the honour that was taken away from him by the Mad King when he was forced to kill him. He thought of the way he had felt with King Aery’s blood on his hands when he had climbed the steps of the throne. He thought of Joffrey lying in his own blood in his chambers. _Dead because I failed him, and failed Cersei too._  

He charged forward, sword held high in his hand. Renly still stood there, smirking. _Perhaps he thinks I won’t do it?_ Jaime thought, incredulous.

But Jaime did. He thrust his sword down hard, right into that smirking face, turning it into a bloody ruin. 

 

\--

 

The next morning, Jaime sat at the table in the small council chamber. His head still ached from the blow he must have taken the night before, and every muscle and bone burned in his body from overexertion. He looked to his father then, who had assumed a seat in the King’s chair. _Well, at least he’s finally sitting in the chair he’s always dreamed of._

Lord Tywin looked upon Jaime with a queer expression of pride, gratitude, and loathing all at the same time. Jaime felt his body bristle under his father’s eye. “Jaime, are you listening to me?” Tywin asked impatiently. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“Aye, father.”

“King Tommen has named me Protector of the Realm until such time that he reaches his sixteenth nameday. I will rule in his stead until that day.” _Ah of course, only until he turns sixteen._ Jaime thought once more of King Aerys, his arms and legs covered in cuts from the iron throne. Yet Aerys had refused to give it up, despite the threat of his own death. He had been so determined to hold the throne that he had been ready to burn the entire city down. How hard would it be for his own father to give up the throne after keeping it warm for the next 5 years?

“Aye father. And who will be your hand? Tyrion?” Jaime asked back, pointedly. He had not seen Tyrion since the wedding feast.

“Tyrion is not well enough to assume a seat at the council right now. He was injured by the wildfire explosion.” Tywin’s face pulled into an amused half-smile. “It seems he miscalculated the amount of wildfire that had been under the gates.” Jaime felt his stomach clench and pull. Tyrion didn’t miscalculate anything.

“Father, I don’t believe that was Tyrion’s fault. I believe his cache may have sent off another, deeper one placed by the Mad King.” Jaime glared at Lord Varys, who had begun to titter nervously.

“Indeed, my lord. I expect we are rather lucky for it as well. From what I’ve heard, the explosion killed thousands of Baratheon men in under a minute, with only a few of our men killed in the process.” Varys’ voice was thick and sweet like honey.

“And yet, it still had to be my men who came in and cleared out the rest of the Baratheon host.” Tywin’s voice was sharp as a dagger. “And my men who took the Tyrell girl and Lady Catelyn prisoner while you were busy cutting down your own goodbrother.” _May as well be a kinslayer and a kingslayer to all of you._ It didn’t matter what any of them thought of him, all that mattered was Cersei, and he still hadn’t been allowed to see her. The thought crossed his mind that they were all Tywin’s prisoners now.

“No, my brother Kevan will take Tyrion’s place as hand of the king.” Jaime’s mind whirred at that thought. Uncle Kevan had been tasked to take care of Casterly Rock while his lord father was here in King's Landing.

“What then of Casterly Rock? Who will be there to protect it?” Jaime asked, surprised his father would leave his lands so open to attack.

Tywin looked at him knowingly, his pale green eyes catching the rays of sunlight peeking in through the windows, causing them to take on a golden shimmer. “You.”

 

 

\--------


	13. En Passant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn sits in the dungeons of King’s Landing, Jon and Sansa make their way north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is smut incoming in this chapter, but it's intermingled with plot!

**Catelyn**

 

Catelyn sat on a cold stone floor, the stench of urine from the chamberpot nearby strong in her nostrils. How had everything gone so wrong, so quickly? She found herself replaying her last conversation with Renly over and over again, wondering if there were anything she could have done differently.

 _“If Stannis is too stubborn to join my cause, and too afraid to take down a false king, I shall do so myself. I will attack King’s Landing, I will take the throne for myself. I have 60,000 men at my back loyal to my cause.”_ His face had erupted into a confident smirk, despite the rotten peach that sat at his feet.

_“You are right though my lady, no one is as accursed as the kinslayer. I will take no arms against my brother, but when I take the throne, I mean to take it for myself. If Stannis means to take it himself, he had better do so before me, and I mean to attack within the fortnight.”_

When Catelyn had begged Renly to give her leave to go back North, to Edmure or to Lysa, or to her children, all her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. He had deemed it necessary to keep her as a hostage, against her will. How could she have so misjudged this man?

And when his host had fallen, Catelyn had been dragged into a cell in the dark depths of the Red Keep. It was even worse than she could have imagined. She had been paraded in front of Cersei by Lannister men. She had been thrown at her feet, Lord Tywin standing nearby. The only thing that had kept Catelyn from crying had been the thought that at least now she may finally see her poor Sansa once more.

Yet, as Catelyn sat there on the ground in front of Cersei and Tywin, she saw what wasn’t being said, and who hadn’t been in attendance. “Where is the King?” she had demanded.

“King Joffrey is dead” Lord Tywin said coolly. “And your daughter and her bastard brother have both disappeared as well. Imagine my surprise then, to find Catelyn Stark among Renly’s host.”

He looked almost amused,  and Catelyn saw the precarious position she was in, the position she had allowed herself to be put in.

“Your daughter killed my son! I want her dead, I want you dead!” Cersei screeched out loudly. “We should have killed you all when we had the chance! We never should have spared your husband. You all deserve to die.” Her dress was covered in blood, and her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair hung flat and matted around her head. For the first time, Catelyn felt a strange sort of sympathy for the woman who had caused her so much pain. That sympathy was quickly replaced by anger when Catelyn pictured Bran lying in bed after his fall, broken and small. She felt the scars on her hands begun to throb.

“It’s no worse than what you tried to do to my Bran, to Ned, to my Sansa.” She fixed her eyes hard on Cersei and her father.

“She admits it! Father, send her to the dungeons!” Cersei had a wildness in her eyes, _a mother’s taste for revenge,_ Catelyn thought wryly.

Lord Tywin stood watch, staying silent. Catelyn felt his eyes on her, then upon his own daughter. Finally, they flicked briefly to the distance, where little Tommen sat playing with a little tomcat. “Lady Catelyn, as the Lord Protector of the Realm, I charge you with treason.” His stare had fixed back on hers again, eyes emerald green and shining bright. They seemed to catch the sunlight and sparkle gold when he turned his face towards the King’s Guard. “Take her to the dungeons to await her trial.”

 

\--

 

The days turned into weeks until Catelyn no longer knew how long she had been kept in her cell. She was given food and water, but no light, no fresh linens or clothes, and her last bath must have been a moon’s turn or more ago. She had never suffered in this way before, never had she fallen so low. Her thoughts turned to her children, to her own mistakes. Had this all been folly? Would she have been better served to have simply returned home?

The days and nights stretched out, seemingly endless. In the darkness her only company was her thoughts, her memories, her regrets. It stretched out towards infinity, and part of her wished for death to free her from her own misery.

She lay on the ground, unmoving, as a jailer made his rounds. They did so every so often, though they never spoke to her. They simply existed to empty her chamberpot and give her meager food and water. Today though, this jailer was different. Much shorter than the normal men, and he walked with a cane. As he got closer, Catelyn realized that it was Tyrion Lannister, hobbling forward towards her. He stopped just outside the bars of her cell.

“Lady Catelyn” His voice was thick and pained, his beard long and shaggy, and he hunched over his cane in pain, his legs even more twisted than they had been before. “I see that you have been given all the hospitality of King’s Landing.” He gave out a bark of a laugh.

Catelyn cleared her throat, wary of the man before her. “What brings you here, Lord Tyrion?”

She heard him snort. “I am here to talk, Lady Catelyn. I fear there are few worthy of my conversation left here.” He sat himself down on the dirty ground outside the iron bars holding Catelyn hostage. He began to pick and pull at a frayed string on his tunic.

"I have been held hostage in my chambers for two moons lady Catelyn, did you know that?"

Catelyn looked at the small man, the one she had once thought to be a murderer. She saw weakness and exhaustion in his eyes, and she gazed at the cane he now needed to walk. "I had heard that in passing, Lord Tyrion."

He let out another bark of a laugh. "I'm no one's lord anymore Lady Catelyn."

She paused and considered him, looking around the prison cell. Her eyes flitted to the chamber pot once more. "Then I am no longer a lady" she sighed out, resigned. "I fear that day ended long ago, gods how has it been less than two years since I left Winterfell? It feels like that was a lifetime ago."

Tyrion looked down at his hands, turning them over slowly to look at each joint carefully. "I was born a Lannister, and I am a Lannister through and through. Why I have spent so much of my life protecting a family that wishes me dead I'll never know." His face grimaced. "I was as healed as I’ll ever be weeks ago, but father kept me in my chambers anyway. He has taken my appointment as hand of the king away from me. He called it punishment for the explosion at the Kings gate." Tyrion looked down at his twisted legs. "You'd think this would be punishment enough."

Catelyn looked hard at Tyrion, at his mismatched eyes and thick coarse beard. She had once thought him to be a hideous creature, but now he seemed almost a child, afraid and vulnerable.

"If it weren't for that explosion, Renly would have sacked the city before your father arrived." Catelyn conceded quietly. "He would have killed your sister, held a trial for your brother and his children. He would have done to your family as your family has done to mine."

Tyrion looked back at Catelyn, his one black eye piercing deep within her. "Tell that to my father, for all the good it does any of us. What do I have now, now that he has taken it all away?"

"Your life" she said simply.

Tyrion laughed once more, more resigned, more wistful now. “Aye, my life. A life under the watchful eye of my father. A life where he chooses my bride and my home and my children.” He paused, looking down at the frayed string once more. “Did you know I was married once, Catelyn? When I was barely a man grown. She told me she was a crofter’s daughter, but she was a whore. And my lord father saw to it that I would learn a lesson from it all, and I have never forgotten. He made me watch as a hundred men took her in turn, and left the last turn for me.” Catelyn recoiled at Tyrion’s words. "I'll never forget the expression on her face when I finished, it was the deepest sadness I've ever seen." His voice cracked as he spoke.

"So you see, Lady Catelyn, our lives don’t belong to us. They belong to our parents who came before us, and in turn they go on to mould the lives of our own children.”

Catelyn sat there, wondering if she had doomed her own children’s lives by her own actions. The thought disquieted her.

“They have made Tommen king, but you know that by now right? Little Tommen, barely 12 years old. And they have him set to marry the Tyrell girl. Gods she must be almost twice his age, and a widow. But old Mace Tyrell, he doesn’t care as long as his daughter breeds the next king or queen of Westeros.” Tyrion shook his head disgustedly. “What of what she wants? They don’t care though, she is just a little puppet to them all, same as Tommen, and Joffrey before him.”

He looked at Catelyn, fixing his eyes upon her. Where she once felt revulsion, instead she felt pity. Tyrion sat with her for a time, unsure of his next move. "I never knew my mother" he said, finally. "I killed her coming into this world."

"She died bringing you here, she sacrificed herself for you. It's the greatest sacrifice a mother can make, to save the life of her child." Catelyn's mind wandered to a time long ago, to a bedside vigil, to all the bedside vigils over the years. To all the times she had begged the Stranger to leave her children and take her instead. To the time she had promised to love a motherless child and failed to do so.

She squeezed Tyrions hand tightly and looked him in the eyes with all the love a mother can hold within her. "Tyrion Lannister, you are a good man." It was too dark to see his expression clearly, but she felt a couple warm drops fall upon her hands. _Tears. He's crying_ , she thought _. Has no one ever loved this man? Has no one ever told him he is good and just?_

"After the explosion, when I was lying there on the ground, all I could do was look up at the sky." Tyrion paused, he was swallowing a lump from his throat. "The only thing I could see was the ice dragon, and it's blue eye."

His face screwed up beneath his beard. "I still see it now, that blue eye is everywhere I look, it's there when I close my eyes."

Catelyn felt herself shake from the weight of his words. "The blue eye of the ice dragon points the way north" she breathed out softly.

“A great injustice has been done to your family, Lady Stark. It is because of the sins of my family that your husband rots at the wall, that your sister sits alone at the Eyrie, that your daughter almost had to marry that monster of a child. It is because of my family that the North is now at war.” Tyrion released her hand and grasped for the cane. He pulled himself up slowly, weak still from his injuries, and stiff from the cool ground. “I intend to right the wrongs that we have done you. But first, you must make me a promise.”

Catelyn looked at him warily. “What do you wish me to promise?”

“With Renly dead now, who will the North support?" He shook his head. "You will all stand behind Stannis, that old goat of a man, won’t you?”

Catelyn stiffened. “I suppose we will” she said cautiously.

“Now, I don’t know who will win this war, be it stag or lion, but I ask only one thing of you in return for your freedom. If the North shall prevail, I ask that you do not kill my sister or brother, and that you do not kill my nephew or niece. That is all I ask. Grant them mercy, as once was granted to Eddard Stark.”

Could she do this thing? Could she give up her revenge, the thing that had driven her for so long? But her heart yearned to see her children once more, after so long. What is revenge compared to the feel of your children in your arms? What had revenge ever gotten her? “I promise you, Tyrion, as much as within my power it may be, I will not allow any harm to come to Cersei, Jaime, Tommen, or Myrcella.”

His lips upturned into a pained smile. Neither of them needed to put words to what had been left unspoken. He had not asked for leniency for his father, the silence meant more than any words ever could. "Come, Lady Catelyn, the north awaits you."

In the shadows of the dungeon, Catelyn saw an old jailer hobble forth, keys jangling. He smelt of rancid ale and a heavy cloak covered his face, but she could tell he was a wide man, perhaps tall too, though he stooped heavily.

"Would you believe, Lady Catelyn, that this is the second time in as many moons that I have run into a Stark in these dungeons?" The man's voice was thick like honey.

"Come now, it's about time we set this all to right, don't you think, Lord Tyrion?" He hobbled forward and unlocked the iron bars. They swung forward with a screech that echoed through the halls.

They walked down through the dungeons, deeper and deeper. A queer thought took over Catelyn as she wondered whether these dungeons were bigger than the crypts of Winterfell. These were the places of the dead, the living had no place here.

They came upon a dead end in a hall, the way blocked by jutting rock. "Come now" Lord Varys beckoned. Catelyn stepped forward, wary.

"The way is blocked, Lord Varys" she exclaimed, confusedly.

"Is it?" He asked, amused. His hand thrust forward into the darkness, feeling along the rocks. In an instant, she heard a groaning, creaking sound from deep within the rock, and a boulder rolled just so slightly, opening a crevice.

"Let us make haste, before a guard notices you missing." They walked through the crevice, which closed behind them with another loud groan, and entered into a cavern that opened out into the Blackwater bay. Moored to the rocks were two rowboats.

"This one is for you, Lady Catelyn" he gestured to one, "and this one is for me".

"And what of me?" Tyrion asked, cocking his head.

Lord Varys let out a loud titter of a laugh. "Well I suppose that is your decision, Lord Tyrion."

"Where are you going, Lord Varys?"

"Oh nowhere of importance, just a quiet place where I can roost. You see, Kings Landing is rather infested these days, and me and my little birds are no longer safe." He tittered as he grabbed an oar. "You will find a larger boat in the bay waiting to take you to White Harbour my lady."

Catelyn's heart leapt at the thought _. Home. Robb. Bran. Rickon. Arya. Sansa!_

"Why are you doing me this kindness, Lord Varys? Who do you serve?"

"I serve the realm, Lady Catelyn, as I told your daughter. I trust that you will remember this kindness I have done for the Starks in the name of peace and prosperity." Catelyn nodded gravely, feeling a twang of concern within her gut. She had always mistrusted mummers, and Lord Varys was the most gifted one she'd ever met.

Varys turned back towards Tyrion, gesturing to the boats. "Now, I ask you once more, Tyrion, which boat do you choose?"

 

\-------

 

**Jon**

 

It had taken a day and a night, but Jon had managed to row them to Rosby, and safely away from King’s Landing. In the darkness of the night, Sansa had stripped out of her fine clothes, and had spent the rest of the boat ride sitting only in her shift. The vision of her sitting beside him shouldn’t have been so tempting, shouldn’t have been so distracting. Yet, his eyes kept wandering to the neckline of the shift, to her curves so poorly hidden by the thin material, to the swells of her breasts. There was little else to do as he rowed other than to look into her eyes, and well, the rest of her too.

Now that they were back on land, he supposed they could buy her a simple dress with the small amount of coin he had. Yet, somehow it seemed a crime to cover her up. He smiled at the notion of keeping Sansa locked in his chambers, with nothing but a shift on for the rest of their days.

“Jon?” Sansa asked, quirking her head towards him, shaking him from his thoughts.

“Yes Sansa?”

“I asked you a question” she giggled, shaking her head. “Were you too busy eyeing my shift to hear me?”

Jon’s face reddened, but her words were true enough. Even now, with her auburn hair windswept and delightfully tussled, with her shift dirty and stiff from the salty air, she was a vision. “I can’t help it, you are a magnificent distraction, my lady.”

Jon’s heart swelled at the blush that covered her face and cascaded its way gently down her neck. He also caught the twinge of annoyance in her face. “I asked you how long until we could buy me some more suitable attire. Clearly, it’s too much of a distraction to you.”

Jon’s eyes wandered down once more, despite himself. He found himself fantasizing about laying her down in a meadow and tearing the shift from her body. They were free now, they could do what they liked. After being trapped for so long in King’s Landing, the feeling of freedom had his body buzzing. They could go home finally. The thought of being home in Winterfell and mussing up Arya’s hair brought a smile to Jon’s face.

In the end, Sansa managed to convince Jon that a dress would be necessary to ensure their anonymity and safe passage north. With the remainder of the coin that Jon had taken with them he bought them a mount, bedrolls, food, water, and wine for their travels. The ride north would be slower with a single courser, but it was all they could afford.

The further north they travelled, the darker Jon’s thoughts became though. They had gotten carried away in King’s Landing. Maybe once they were back in Winterfell Sansa would realize the mistake they had made? Was this all a mistake? Were they as bad as Jaime and Cersei? That thought left a sick, uncomfortable feeling deep within Jon’s stomach. The thought of Sansa being his half-sister had not occurred to him in months, yet now it seemed an inevitable, insurmountable obstacle.

Jon knew what he must do. As soon as Sansa was safely back in Winterfell, he must travel north and confess to his father the grave sin that they had committed. There would be no other option than to pray that he gave forgiveness, and then to pray that he would not tell Catelyn of the horrible mistake that they had made. Perhaps he would have to take the black with his father, as penance. _But had any mistake ever felt so good, as it did to love Sansa?_ That thought sat with him all the way past Brindlewood.

 

\--

 

They were careful as they made camp each night to stay far from the King’s road, and they tried their best not to make a fire, lest they attract unwanted attention. The lack of warmth or shelter left them both cold each evening, with Sansa inevitably curling into his warm body each night, leaving Jon cursing the old gods and new. He had promised himself that they would not sin anymore, yet it was the cruelest sort of torture, worse now that he knew the pleasure they were denying themselves.

It was made even worse when Sansa would stretch and yawn against him each evening. It must have been deliberate, no maid writhes such as she did, curling her toes and pressing her bottom against him, trying to find a comfortable position to rest in on the hard ground. Jon would groan and lean into her, allowing himself the blessed friction that her body gave him. Once more though, as always, it only served to stoke the fire of his frustrations. And by the gods, Jon was sure she knew that too.

And when he would lean into her, she would let out the smallest sigh of a moan, happy and comfortable. _She feels it all too, that we are two halves come together to make a whole._

That thought would give him the confidence to rest his head in her soft auburn locks and breathe her scent in, would give him the strength to whisper quietly in her ear of all the terrible, beautiful things he wished to do with her. And when he would whisper these things, he was sure he could feel her shudder against him, pressing her bottom harder still against his rapidly tightening breeches.

It was a cruel dance, with no release, until each night, she would roll over to face him and place the most chaste of kisses upon his lips, a silent affirmation of their mutual feelings. And that would be the tipping point, from there there would be no salvation for either of them. Then they would be as they had been all those many moons before, in front of the heart tree once more.

It would begin as it always did, with Sansa pulling Jon’s locks free of their tie, releasing dark brown curls over his face. She would wrap her fingers through them, and pull him towards her, and he would happily oblige her. A husband can deny his wife nothing.

Their mouths would collide, softly at first, gentle and feather light. But as minutes would pass, they would both need more, and the kisses would grow deeper and more fervent. Hands would begin to roam, Jon grasping for the swells of her breasts under her dress, feeling her nipples harden through the fabric. She would mewl for him, lean into his touch as she always did. And soon he would be gasping, feeling his hardness pushing against her mound, desperation sinking into both of their souls.

And Sansa would stop then, and blessedly, thankfully, remove her dress and her shift, revealing all her beauty to him. The sight of her milky white flesh in the light of the moon was almost enough to unman him, each and every night.

She would reach for his jerkin, tugging at it impatiently, and he would chuckle and remove his clothing for her, until they were both naked as the gods intended. And it would be a delicious sin to hear her moans as he would bring her to peak after peak with his mouth or his hands, reveling in the salty-sweet sweat that gathered on her thighs after each climax.

And when he thrust into her, their bodies crashing into each other, that was the sweetest sin of all. To feel her silky wetness squeezing his length with each thrust, to hear her moans of pleasure, placing soft kisses upon her face, and licking up her neck until she would mewl and writhe below him, bringing her to her peak once more.

He would tell himself these small sins were forgivable, that he would spill on her thigh and not within her, and he would believe himself until she looked into him with those beautiful blue eyes, dark and blown wide with need, and she would tell him how much she loves him. He loves her too, and that makes each night all the more torturous.

Jon held Sansa’s face between his hands, storm grey eyes meeting bright blue. “I love you, Sansa. With every bone and muscle and piece of my body, I love you. I will love you until the day that I die, no matter what happens next.”

Sansa giggled softly, pulling errant curls from his face, still slick with sweat from their lovemaking. “We’ll run away to a holdfast in the Gift, and make a house for ourselves, with our own sigil. No one will ever separate us again.” Her words were resolute, and Jon nodded, placing kisses on each cheek and her forehead.

“Aye, sweet girl.” But both of them knew theirs was a dream for spring, and winter was coming.

 

\--

 

He awakes in the woods as though he has been prowling for hours. He is keenly aware of his surroundings, and the air smells of man and blood. Men wage their wars unaware of the world around them, and the world must bend to their will.

But his kind was not like that. They took what they needed from the earth and never more. Tonight though, he needed food. A small deer or several rabbits would suffice, he was now hunting for his pack.

He once had a larger, stronger pack, but they had been separated many moons past. Now his small pack was growing by one more. His leader had found a mate and she would soon have his cubs.

He whined into the darkness, wishing for his own mate, his own cubs. That would follow soon though, once these ones were whelped, he would find his own mate and make a pack of his own. Until then, he must protect and provide for his leader and his mate.

These woods are familiar to him, he has been through them many times before. There is something dark and ancient here, something that lies in wait, watching all that happens. He has felt this feeling before. These woods belong to old gods, and he is but a servant to them.

He settles for catching three rabbits, one for each member of his little pack. They have been preparing for winter and are thick and plump. He slavers at the thought of eating them all now, but he must wait.

In the distance a lone wolf howls. The sound is mournful and familiar, and he wishes he could join in the call. He remembers the sounds of his brothers' and sisters' howls, a melody that would fill the night air.

He isn't sure at the first howl, but when he hears the second howl he is certain. This is the call of his long-lost brother. He bounds off in the direction of the howl, leaving the dead rabbits discarded in the grass.

 

\--

 

Jon awoke groggy and disoriented, feeling as though he had been up all night. He felt Sansa begin to stir beside him, her body stretching out and shaking the sleep from her limbs.

“How much longer until we reach Winterfell, my love?”

Jon pulled her close to him, placing a kiss to her forehead. “We are still a long way away I’m afraid, we have only just now reached Darry. The worst is over now though and soon we may travel along the King’s road once more.”

She let out a contemptable sigh, but Jon could not blame her. Ladies were not meant to ride all day and sleep each night on the hard, cold ground. They packed up their meager camp and set out for the day, always heading north.

It was his horse that whinnied first, alerting Jon to a commotion ahead. They dipped further into the woods, hidden from the road, though they could still hear voices coming from the distance.

“Aye, your Grace, we should be at Harrenhall by evenfall.”

“Send a raven to my uncle to advise him of our location. We will cut down any Lannister men in the area as we head south.” The second voice was familiar to Jon, though he couldn’t place it.

His courser whinnied once more, threatening to give away their location. Jon placed a hand on its mane to calm it, feeling its fear. The source of its fear soon became apparent as a great direwolf leapt from the forest, snarling and snapping at the horse.

Sansa let out a loud gasp, pulling herself from Jon’s grasp and jumping to the ground. “Greywind!” she cried out, as the massive direwolf closed his jaws, and lay down on the ground, exposing his belly.

“He’s always been a sucker for a damsel in distress”, that same familiar voice called out from the road, louder and clearer now. Jon dismounted from the horse, tying it to a tree.

“Robb!” he choked out, his voice thick and heavy with emotion. Robb walked into the woods, pulling Jon into a great bear hug. “I’d heard you’d escaped King’s Landing, but I never dreamed it would be me to find you both.”

Jon fought back tears at the reunion with his brother whom he had not seen in near two years now, watching Sansa run into their brother’s arms crying with joy. The scene before him made his heart so full it felt like to burst.

“Come Sansa, my retinue will see that you get a clean dress and your own mount.” Robb gestured for a squire to attend to Sansa, while he placed a heavy hand upon Jon’s shoulder. “We have much to talk about” he said in a low voice, making Jon’s stomach tie in knots.

They set up a camp off the road, Jon and Robb standing around a makeshift war table, with thousands of men throwing up tents behind them.

“I want you to join me Jon, we will win every battle we fight together.”

Jon’s stomach clenched once more, making him feel likely to lose his breakfast. “Where are you heading to battle?” he said, carefully, measuring his words.

Robb stood over the maps, auburn curls falling down his forehead as he leaned over them. “The Lannisters have declared war against the North and the Riverlands. We have been declared to be in open rebellion.”

Jon nodded carefully, one eyebrow raised, at the iron and bronze crown that now perched over the curls of Robb’s hair. “It seems they have the right of that, your Grace.” Robb’s expression changed to one of pain and frustration.

“I had no choice Jon. After you and Sansa escaped, they took mother hostage. They claimed that you all conspired to kill Joffrey, they named it treason.” He paused, taking the crown from his head and placing it haphazardly on the table. “It was rebellion, or promising them your heads.”

Jon swallowed hard, pushing bile back down his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” His eyes met his half-brother’s, seeing the pain in them.

“I had to leave my new wife behind in Winterfell. I had to leave Bran behind as the Lord of Winterfell. I didn’t want this, I didn’t want to be named King in the North, but we had no other option. I couldn’t be seen as weak by my men.” Robb pointed to the map, to Moat Cailin. “I have left half my force in Moat Cailin under the instruction of Roose Bolton. He has become one of my most trusted men, he is an excellent strategist.”

Then Robb pointed at Riverrun. “The rest of us, some 10,000 men will head to Riverrun to help uncle Edmure secure it from the Lannisters.”

“What then?” Jon interjected. “Will you kill all the Lannisters and take the damned Iron Throne for yourself? How does this war end?”

Robb looked down at the heavy crown, sitting dangerously close to the edge of the table. “This war was inevitable, it always was.”

His gaze fell to Dragonstone then. “I mean to secure the throne for it’s rightful heir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this story is officially longer than my dissertation. Though I have to admit writing this story has been a much more fun process than that was.
> 
> I think most of you have probably figured it out already, but this story is winding down. I'm not going to be able to bring it to endgame because of a lot of mistakes I made early on when I first started writing, but I promise I'm going to bring it to a satisfying conclusion and let you imagine from there how you want it to end. 
> 
> To everyone who has given me encouragement and helped me along the way, thank you all! I have learned so much these past couple months. 
> 
> I have a plan to write a post-ADWD story (unless GRRM releases TWOW before I have a storyboard completed ahahaha we can dream right?), so please keep an eye out for that if you've enjoyed my writing so far. Also, for those who are in it for the smut I have a bunch of ficlets written/planned as well.
> 
> T - 2 chapters


	14. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned speaks with Maester Aemon, Jon and Sansa reach Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short scene of smut here. I couldn't let this story go without one more scene between these two.

**Ned**

Ned sighed as he made his way to Maester Aemon’s chambers. It seemed each time they would see each other it was only to exchange more bad news. _Dark wings, dark words._ But the darkest news had arrived earlier that day, in the form of Dolorous Edd, Grenn, Dywen, and only a few other black brothers appearing on the other side of the wall. Two hundred men had left for north of the wall, and less than two score had made it back. Worse still, Lord Commander Mormont was not with the group. He had been slain during a mutiny at Craster’s Keep.

It had all been a folly, a terrible folly. It had begun with Quorin Halfhand’s ranging party going missing, likely captured by wildlings. Then the group had been attacked in the Frost Fangs by the Others, and it all ended with a mutiny.

 _“Oy, we were lucky to escape with our lives, we were.”_ Dolorous Edd had told him _. “If it wasn’t the wights that got us, it were the cold. One by one, we was being picked away as if we were squirrels or rabbits. The least we could’ve been given was a hot meal and full belly before they killed us off.”_

And now there was no Lord Commander. The Night’s Watch was all that stood between life and death, and it was manned by a fraction of the force needed, and led by no one. The only knowledge that had come from the ranging had been to learn that the Others were indeed here, and as far south as the Frost Fangs. That thought disquieted Ned more than he could say, and more than he could let the other men see. He had always heeded the words of House Stark but had thought the stories that Old Nan used to tell were just stories and nothing more.

Instead, Ned had always believed in what he could see, in the things that his father had taught him. He believed in the Weirwoods of the Old Gods and the quiet strength of Valyrian steel. He believed in vengeance and mercy in equal measure. He believed in duty and honour, and that his word was his bond. But he never truly believed in the Others, or at least never believed they still roamed the realm, until now.

Weeks ago, Ned had asked the Maester to send out ravens to the entire realm, entreating them for recruits, yet no answer had yet been received. Now, Ned had to ask the Maester for another favour, to begin yet another Choosing. Jeor Mormont had been Lord Commander for less than 20 years, and to be cut down by his own men… It was senseless and needless, and the Old Bear had deserved better.

Ned walked towards the stout wooden keep where the old Maester’s chambers could be found. He felt weary, and the cold autumn winds ripped through his cloak, chilling him and aching his joints. He was as old now as the Old Bear had been when he was elected Lord Commander. How many years did he have left himself?

He entered the keep, and found Aemon sitting in an old rocking chair by the hearth, a roaring fire heated the room to an almost sweltering temperature.

“Ah, Ned, I expected you’d be coming to me sooner or later.”

Ned sat himself in a chair opposite him, pulling his sword belt from his body and resting it against the hearth. “You’ve heard the news then.”

“Aye, I have. I suppose it is time for another Choosing, isn’t it?” His voice was wistful. How many Choosings had the old Maester sat through?

“I expect we’ll start within the next fortnight, the sooner we can have a new Commander, the better. I heard disturbing reports from the remaining men that have made it back to us.”

Maester Aemon had a small, queer sort of smile upon his face when Ned finished. “I expect you’ll lead us just fine” he said, a hint of mirth in his voice.

The words bristled against Ned, and he felt his hands clench. _I spent my life doing my duty, I put my own family at risk for duty. I can’t do it again. And even if I did, that would ensure no help from King’s Landing in the war to come._

“Aye, until the next Lord Commander is elected.” Ned’s voice was stiff, he was haunted by a vision of his children surrounded by a pride of lions. In his mind’s eye the lions’ mouths were open wide, slaver dripping down from their fangs. _No, I must not interfere in the affairs of the realm anymore._

Maester Aemon nodded absentmindedly, turning his face to the flames. “I have been blind longer than you have been a father, yet I still remember what everything looks like. I turn my head to the fire, and I feel its heat. I remember what a fire should look like, yet I do not see the flames themselves. I imagine this fire to be a great roaring beast of reds and oranges and yellows, but I cannot be certain.”

He brought his hands closer to the fire, letting its heat warm them. “Sometimes we must place trust in what we think we know, without having absolute certainty. I trust that you will hold the wall, when given the chance.”

Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat, he saw a million things and one. He saw his life stretching out for eternity, and ending in an instant, like a drop of water falling into the narrow sea. He saw his life ending in the blink of an eye, still so many things left unsaid. He was a young boy sparring with his brother, he was in a tower in Dorne covered in blood, he was standing in the Winterfell crypts, he stood in front of Winterfell’s gates, a squalling babe in his arms, and finally he stood atop the wall, fire surrounding him.

“Do you really believe the throne will send help by the call of a Stark, Maester Aemon?”

The old Maester smiled once more, empty eyes staring into the flames. “Do you really believe the throne will send help by the call of any man, Lord Stark?” Ned faltered, considering the Maester’s words.

“If I do this thing, Maester Aemon, if I am elected Lord Commander…“ He paused. “How can we defeat something that we haven’t seen in thousands of years?”

Maester Aemon gestured for Ned to help him up. “Come, it’s time we feed the ravens.”

Ned led the old Maester up the steps to the rookery. He opened the door for him, and together they walked out to the room, a large opening in one wall for the ravens to come and go. Some ravens sat perched on tables or windows, while others sat calmly in cages, awaiting messages.

“A long time ago, I heard of a prophecy” the Maester began, as he raised his hands to feel along the stone walls. Ravens cawed and flew from his touch. “It spoke of a prince who was promised. One who would deliver the earth from darkness. I was always wary of it, yet here we are.” His face morphed to a rueful smile.

Ned stood lost in thought. He was a babe again, sitting in a rocking chair in Winterfell, Old Nan telling her stories. “The North has its own story. A story of the last hero, who helped to defeat the Others long ago, before the Andals came to Westeros. It was after this battle for the dawn that the Wall was built, and the Night’s Watch has stood vigil ever since.”

The Maester turned away from his work, leaving a scroll half rolled on the table. “In these stories, how does the last hero defeat the Others?”

“He leads a ranging party north to the home of the Children of the Forest, and they help him to defeat the Others. But these are just stories, legends from thousands of years ago. And the Children of the Forest are long since dead, if they ever lived at all.”

“Just as the Others were too? It seems to me we may have forgotten many things we once knew.” Aemon chuckled softly. “If only my eyes still worked, I would travel to the Citadel myself and find some answers, while we still can. There are books there that are thousands of years old, books that could hold all the answers we seek.”

Ned considered the Maester’s words. Even though they needed every man at the wall, this could be the difference between life and death for the Watch. “Is there anyone you would send in your stead?”

Maester Aemon considered the words carefully, tying a message to a raven’s leg, and setting it free. “There is a man who arrived near a year ago and still has not been allowed to take his vows. He struggles with his training I’m afraid, yet I think this task will well suit him. Often, he sneaks into the library late at night to read and has a keen sense for it. His name is Samwell Tarly.”

Ned knew of Samwell Tarly. He knew Samwell was more a boy than a man, and more a craven than a crow. But this seemed as good a use for him as he’d ever thought of. “Aye, I will have him sent to the Citadel after the Choosing.” Ned conceded, as the old Maester reached down for a bucket of raw meat for the birds.

“One more thing,” Ned said, causing Aemon to pause. “Where was it that you first heard your story, of the prince who was promised?”

The Maester’s face grew tired and worn. “I fear it will do little to better your mood, Lord Stark. It is easy to sit here and talk of tales from a thousand years past, but much harder to reopen such recent wounds.”

“We must know all we can about the Others and this prophecy. If you could tell me who told you this, maybe I could go to speak with them.” His voice was earnest as he spoke, but he saw the Maester’s expression only darken further.

“I’m afraid the man you seek has long since died, and his secrets have died with him. I once believed him to be the prince who was promised, then his son after him. But now, they are both dead, and here I still sit.” He sighed, his voice was full of love and longing, speaking of things long lost. It was the same voice Ned himself would speak with when he thought of Lyanna. It sent a shiver down his spine. The Maester reached his hands into the bucket, grasping a handful of raw, bloody cubes. He threw them towards the cages, ravens flying haphazardly to catch the morsels of meat.

“Who was the man that you speak of? Tell me now, Maester.” Ned’s voice was stern, a tone he had never before taken with the man.

Aemon put down the bucket and allowed his body to straighten. He turned to face Ned, and Ned felt the air in the room shift. “The man was Rhaegar Targaryen. The man that started a war that tore apart the realm, the man who stole your sister away from Robert Baratheon. He was my blood, and like all the rest of my blood, he is dead now, so the prophecy must have been wrong.”

Ned felt his face pale, felt bile in the back of his throat. _Why does it always come back to this? It always goes back to Harrenhall, and Lyanna and Rhaegar._ _It always goes back to a secret, one or another, and what we suffer to keep those secrets._ “Who are you, Maester Aemon?” his voice was softer, but still stern. Aemon turned towards him, face weary with age and knowledge.

“I am Aemon Targaryan, third son of King Maekar I Targaryen and his wife Dyanna Dayne. Once, long ago, I could have been given the iron throne. But I turned it down for duty. I gave up my life, my titles, everything for the Watch. I gave up my family, long ago, I gave them all up for dead.” Aemon turned his face to the opening in the wall, seeking out the light. The last streaks of sunlight for the day streamed inwards and for a moment, Aemon’s face was lit with gold.

Ned felt his heart stop, felt his blood run cold. _How could the last Targaryen in Westeros have been here with me, all this time?_

“Sometimes I wonder if all the trouble caused by King Aerys could have been avoided if I would have taken the throne…” His voice was wistful, and he turned away from the light. “Alas, I had a duty and a calling, and there is no way around that, is there Ned?”

Ned stood rigid in place, unable to move. “I thought long ago that duty was the most important thing in this world, that in order to devote oneself fully to their duty there can be no yielding. But I think now, maybe, those were the most important tests, and I failed. What if family comes before duty, and before honour?” Ned looked around at the ravens in the rookery. He knew they were alone, surrounded only by ravens. Ravens may have beaks, but they couldn’t speak words, at least not anymore.

“There is something that I have held onto for a lifetime. I made a promise, and in doing so I made the most difficult decision of my life. I chose to dishonour myself to save an innocent and kept the truth a secret from the entire realm. I’m beginning to believe that it is not my secret to keep, and it never was.” Ned paused, looking at his hands. Had his actions served to save Jon, or condemn him? He had promised to keep him safe, but how safe had they been in King’s Landing? How safe and loved had Jon been all those years in Winterfell, growing up a bastard? How safe were him and Sansa now wherever they were?

“If only every man were as noble as you, the world would be a different, kinder place. I fear though, it is not. I have spent most of my life waiting, Ned. I have waited for kings to grow up, I have waited for kings to die. I have waited for peace, and only ever seen more war. And in the end, we are here, alone.” the old Maester said carefully, his hands groping downwards to grasp the bucket once more. He sighed deeply, throwing bits of meat towards the ravens. His hands were now stained red with blood.

“I have waited my entire life to understand my true purpose here, trusting in my vows that I have done the right thing. I think you have done the same. I believe our true purpose was to be here, to play a part in the war to come, in this battle for the dawn.”

"Aye, I think so too" Ned said, his voice low and solemn, his mind whirring. His body screamed the truth so loud he could scarcely think. _Rhaegar’s son is alive. You are not alone._ He reached his hand out to grasp Aemon's bloody hands within his. In the end, it always came down to this, to blood.

He leaned over and whispered into Aemon's ear. The words he spoke were so quiet Ned wasn't even sure the Maester had heard him, until he pulled away and saw tears streaming down his cheeks.

 

\-------

 

**Sansa**

Sansa laid back on a plush down-filled mattress, her first true bed in weeks. She had been scrubbed clean and clothed in a fresh dress by the washer women of the camp. It was a simple woolen dress, but it was clean and warm, and she was thankful nonetheless. The women had carefully washed and brushed her hair as well, pulling lavender oil through her locks and braiding it for the rest of her journey.

Thinking about their journey troubled her though. Robb wanted them to travel south with him, but Sansa only wanted to go home. She knew her mother had been taken hostage at King’s Landing, and yet all she could think of was her freedom. It was so close, they were both so close to home, they couldn’t turn back now.

She found herself wandering to his tent later that afternoon. When she entered the tent, she saw Robb leaning over a map table with Jon, and a simple iron and bronze crown set upon that same table. Neither looked happy, but all Sansa could focus on was the crown. Why did Robb have a crown? Only kings wear crowns. The realization took the breath from her lungs.

“Robb, what have you done?” She cried out, looking down at the crown.

Robb looked at her in surprise. “I did what I had to do, for the realm.”

Sansa felt her fists clench and a surge of anger passed through her. _Stupid, foolish boy._ “Gods damn the realm Robb! We protect the North, we protect our own, let the others destroy themselves.”

“That’s why I did this Sansa. We are our own kingdom now, and we rule ourselves.” He paused, sighing in exasperation. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you don’t understand the ways of war.” His voice was calm, with a hint of pity. She felt her mouth screw up in disgust.

“No Robb, I lived in King’s Landing for over a year. I know war and the Lannisters better than you ever will, and you would have done well to come to me, to ask me for advice. But you always think you know best, don’t you?” Jon stepped forward and placed one hand on her shoulder, squeezing it softly. She felt the tips of her ears begin the burn.  

“Sansa, he was honour bound to head south and help to protect the Riverlands. He is honour bound to save your mother from King’s Landing.” Jon’s voice was soft and reassuring. _Why don’t they see? Why don’t they understand?_

“And was he honour bound to declare himself a king? They’ll never leave us alone now, not until they destroy us one by one.”

Robb crossed the table and placed his hand over hers. “I promise you Sansa, when we are done there won’t be a Lannister left to destroy us.”

She saw Jon’s face falter, a break in the façade he had created for her, to placate her. “They have the Reach, they have the Westerlands, for all we know they have Dorne now too. We don’t have enough men to take the throne.”

Robb smiled then. “Aye, not on our own. But I have sent Theon to the Iron Islands to offer them independence in exchange for their support in the war to come.” He moved a wooden kraken forward on the map table, into the Westerlands. Then he gestured to the stag sitting proudly on Dragonstone. “And I mean to align with Stannis and offer him the Iron Throne. Father wanted it that way, Stannis is the rightful heir.”

Sansa saw Jon shake his head, saw his frustrated expression. “Stannis ran off to Dragonstone over a year ago. He threatened to kill his own brother, then allowed him to die during the siege of King’s Landing. He has forsaken all the Gods except his Red Priestess. He garners no love and little support, even in the Stormlands. He doesn’t deserve to be the king, and we don’t need his support.”

Jon turned and pointed to the Riverlands on the table. “Why can’t we just fight for our family, for the North and the Riverlands, and leave King’s Landing to break itself, like a serpent eating its own tail. The Iron Throne has killed every man who has ever sat upon it, and every man who has ever played it’s damned game.”

Robb looked resolutely at Jon and Sansa then, his hands gripping the table tightly. “All men must die.”

“Then when will it end, Robb? When you have strung up every Lannister and taken their land? What of the Reach? Will you kill all the Tyrells too? Will you kill little King Tommen and his betrothed? Would you kill a little boy who hasn’t even lived yet?” Jon looked angry now, but Sansa stood frozen in place. It would be too hard to comfort him, and not have Robb see their closeness.

Robb’s expression looked pained. “I promised mother, I promised her vengeance on every Lannister. I gave her my word that she would have revenge for what they did to father, to Bran, to you both.”

Sansa found her eyes welling with tears. “Do I look like this is the revenge I wish for? Tommen is a kind little boy. He loves to play with the castle kittens, and he loves cookies and cakes and pigeon pie. You can’t kill him, Robb. You wouldn’t kill a child, the man I grew up wouldn’t do this.”

“Then what would you have me do? Leave a bastard on the throne, who holds no right to it? Leave our mother in the dungeons of the Red Keep? Let them escape justice for what they’ve done to our family? If we show weakness, the lions will destroy us all. The South needs to know that winter is coming.”

Jon and Sansa looked at each other, their eyes said everything that would be left unsaid. The Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, Robb Stark, would march south to protect the Riverlands, and he would not stop until he destroyed the Lannisters, or they destroyed him. Justice would be served, and the realm will suffer for it, as it always does.

 

\--

 

After their disagreement, Robb no longer pushed for Jon and Sansa to join him on his journey to the Riverlands. Part of Sansa was happy because she wanted more than anything to be home, though another part of her felt a sick twisting in her gut. She knew that Robb was making a grave mistake. It was one thing to protect the Riverlands and save their mother, but it was another to declare war against the Lannisters. He was brave, he was strong, and he was too proud.

They would leave at dawn, but in the meantime, Jon stood watch over Sansa and made up a small camp for the night. Jon set his bedroll several feet away from Sansa’s within the camp tent. _We are half-brother and sister here, we must play that part._ And it wouldn’t be hard, their fight with Robb had done little but to make both of them on edge.

Sansa felt her tummy grumble loudly which caused Jon to look over at her and let out a relieved grin. “Are you hungry my lady?”

“Ravenous.” She replied, smiling widely. She had been so hungry lately, and Jon always found a way to provide for her. She wanted to run her hands through his hair, she wanted to smell his pine and leather scent, she wanted to kiss his soft lips and love him. Everything was so complicated, but when they were together, it was simple and easy, and so good. _Gods, so good._

He walked to her and squeezed her hand briefly, before opening the flap and heading out to start a cook fire. _When this is over, we shall run away. Maybe we can be wildlings together, or maybe we can live in Essos. I can work as a seamstress, and Jon could be a knight. We could have children, a pack of our own._ The daydream made her smile a sad wistful smile. Sansa walked out the tent flap to help gather wood for a fire.

As she stepped into the forest, she let out a loud yelp of surprise. Ghost had snuck up on her. How had he caught up with them so fast? How had he found them? _He must have followed Greywind’s howls._

In his mouth were two dead rabbits. As he padded silently towards Sansa, he lay the rabbits carefully at her feet, and leaned into her leg, nuzzling against her. _He brought them for us, we are his pack,_ she thought as she scratched him vigorously behind his ear, causing him to nuzzle her even harder, and easing the tension of the day.

She saw Jon smile widely as she and Ghost emerged from the thicket of pines, the two rabbits now in her hand. Ghost bounded forward to Jon, who knelt over to scruff the fur between his ears, enjoying the soft warmth of it once more. "I think I feel as you look, boy" he whispered into the direwolf’s ear.

The wolf did look weary from his travels, skinnier than Sansa had ever seen him. Bigger too, nearly the size of a pony. _Lady would be almost as big now too._

They cooked up the rabbits and ate them together by the fire. Sansa ate the choice pieces of meat while it was hot and juicy, and passed the carcass to Ghost to finish off. Jon smiled at her as he did the same. “You’re too good to him, you know. You spoil him so.”

She smiled at Jon, his eyes looking black as the night that surrounded them. “I’m only giving him what he deserves.”

 

\--

 

The remainder of the trip was much harder on Sansa. The winds and cold had begun to pick up, and her dress was woefully inadequate for the weather. She found herself leaning into Jon atop the garron for warmth. The cold had seeped into her bones, and she felt ill most of the trip. When she awoke, she was tired and sore, and she went to bed it was much the same. The worst part though was that she could barely keep anything down. That had made both Jon and Ghost very concerned.

“It’s just an illness, it will pass.” She had said as they curled into their bedroll near White Harbour. “Before you know it, I’ll be right as rain.” But she hadn’t, at least not yet, and it had been nigh two weeks now. She had never felt so ill for so long. _But I’ve never sat atop a horse so long or slept out beneath the stars. I am a wolf, and wolves endure._

They stopped in White Harbour for a night to replenish their supplies, and Sansa was surprised to find that Jon had managed to find her a small cache of lemoncakes for the road. She was even more surprised to find that she could stomach them and keep the sweet, tart cakes down. That brought a wide smile to both their faces and sustained her the rest of the way to Winterfell.

As they dismounted and approached the castle gates, Jon looked to her and gave her hand a squeeze for support. She knew he felt the same way as her, half elated to be home, and half dreading what would happen next with them.

The gates to the castle opened with a massive groan of metal, parting the thick, heavy doors. Sansa felt her heart jump into her throat. She felt tears begin to streak down her cheeks, a torrent of joy and sorrow. It seemed like just yesterday that she had begged Jon to accompany her to King’s Landing, and yet a thousand years ago too. Were either of them the same people as they were before? In only a few more months now, she would be a woman grown, and then what? She turned back to see much the same expression upon Jon’s face, his eyes wet and his soft curls whipping in the wind. _Is this the end, or another beginning?_

She was torn from her thoughts by Rickon running forward to them, with Shaggydog at his heels. Sansa ran to grasp Rickon in her arms. “Gods, you’ve gotten so big!” she cried out, no longer able to lift him up in her arms. His hair was a wild mane of auburn curls, his eyes a dark ocean blue, as wild as his hair.

“So have you!” He said with a wide grin, causing her to laugh and scruff his hair. She turned to see Shaggydog and Ghost rolling in the dirt and mud of the courtyard, reacquainting with each other. Jon moved forward next, grasping Rickon in his arms. Unlike Sansa, Jon was able to lift Rickon up in the air and spin him around, making them all laugh with joy.

“Are you a knight now, Jon?” Rickon asked as Jon put him back down on the ground.

Jon’s eyes darkened for a second, a storm cloud passing the sun. He recovered quickly enough that Rickon did not notice. “No Rickon, we decided it was time to come home instead. The north has no need for knights, we follow the Old Gods, don’t we?”

Rickon smiled, and grabbed their hands, walking in the middle of them. He led them into the courtyard. Sansa saw Maester Luwin, Old Nan, Syrio Forrel, and the household guards. But she didn’t see Bran or Arya. _They should be here. If they were in Winterfell, they’d be here._ She found herself chewing her lip in apprehension.

“Rickon, where are Arya and Bran?”

Rickon shrugged and began to pull them towards to the kitchens. “They left this past moon’s turn for the North. They went with Meera and Jojen and Hodor to find the three-eyed crow.”

“What is a three-eyed crow?” Jon asked, as he sat down at a large table in the kitchen, near a large cook fire. Rickon snatched a jug of mead and cakes from a counter and brought them to the table for Sansa and Jon. Sansa looked longingly at the cakes until she realized they were only filled with sweetmeats and poppy seeds. She looked back at Rickon, who began to pour out mugs of mead.

“I don’t think anyone knows anymore, but he lives north of the Wall, and he was calling to Bran and Jojen. They wanted to wait until Robb or you got home, but I told them it was okay, I knew you were on your way.”

Sansa screwed up her face in confusion. No one had known where they were, or at least that’s what they had thought. “How did you know that?”

“My uncle Brandon told me.” He said simply, plucking a poppy seed cake from the tray and shoving it in his mouth.

“You mean uncle Brynden, the Blackfish?” Sansa asked, still confused.

“No, Brandon, not Brynden. He lives in the crypts now. He told me in a dream that you were coming home. He told me to make them go north, that all our lives depended on it.”

Sansa felt a cold breeze pass through her, as though a ghost had walked through the room. Uncle Brandon died before any of them were born. He had been killed by the mad king in King’s Landing. It was only because of his death that mother and father had married. “How often do you have these dreams Rickon?”

Rickon shrugged once more. “When I need to. Maester Luwin says they’re just dreams, that I imagine it all. But if it’s all my imagination, then why are you here, now? Besides, with everyone here, and most of the Northern lords in the Riverlands there’s nothing to do but wait anyway.” Sansa looked to Jon, wondering if she looked as pale as he did then.

Rickon was unphased by the looks they shared between them and began to speak once more. “Arya’s dancing instructor is here too, and he protects me, and he is teaching me the water dance. Do you want to see?” He jumped up from his seat and took a stance, wielding a butter knife as a sword. Jon chuckled and mussed with Rickon’s hair as he stood, unsheathing his sword.

“You’ll need a sword like this soon, I think” he laughed, passing it to Rickon. Rickon held the blade with two hands, turning it over in his hands.

“Soon, we’ll all need blades.” He said, his voice solemn for just a second, before a mischievous smile broke out, and he ran from the kitchens, Jon running after him.

 

\--

 

Later that evening, Sansa found herself drawn to the Godswood. She had never prayed to the Old Gods when she lived in Winterfell, but they were the only ones who listened to her when they had been in King’s Landing. She sat by the heart tree, relishing in the heat emanating from the hot spring pools.

Ghost padded up silently towards her, a flash of white in the dark forest. His fur was as white as the bark of the heart tree, his eyes as red as it’s leaves. Shaggydog slinked up beside Ghost and slumped down beside her. Sansa reached out to scratch his ears, causing him to let out an appreciative whine.

“You’re going to make Ghost jealous.” Sansa smiled as she turned to see Jon walking towards her. He was wearing a dark brown jerkin and lambskin breeches, and his sword hung safely back in its belt. The moon shone through the woods and lit up his face, a play of shadows and light that made his eyes shine and glimmer. His hair hung down, soft and free in wild ringlets. He looked a man grown, so different from when they had left Winterfell. _That’s because he is a man grown. But when did he grow up?_ She looked down at her own body. _When did I grow up?_

He sat down beside her, intertwining his fingers with hers. “You look a perfect maiden sitting alone here in the forest.” His voice was low and deep, and made her blush.

“You and I both know I’m not a maiden.” Her voice was barely a whisper, as she felt Jon begin to rub small light circles in the skin of her wrist with his fingertips.

“You’re my maiden, with skin pale as the bark of Weirwood, and hair as red as it’s leaves.”

Sansa giggled. “I was just thinking the same of Ghost.”

Jon stopped to consider his wolf. “Aye, I suppose so. How lucky I am to be sent two gifts from the Old Gods.” He repositioned them so that Sansa lay between his legs, using his chest as a pillow. His hands combed lightly through her hair. She found her own hands wandering to the ties of his jerkin, longing to feel the hard planes of his chest.

“Am I a gift, or a curse, Jon?”

He wrapped his arms tightly around her, holding her close. “A gift, sweet girl, always a gift. I would not have made it back here without you.”

“Nor I you.” He dipped his head down to breathe her in, the feel of his hot breath tickling the nape of her neck. “When this is over, when mother is back home, what will we do?” She felt his muscles tighten at the mention of her mother, at the inevitability of their secret, and how it must come to light.

“Whatever you wish to do, as long as it means I can still love you, still kiss you.” She felt his words rumbling in his chest, sparking that deep want within her. Every part of her body screamed that this was right, that this was love, and it was pure and true. A single Weirwood leaf fell from a branch and slowly fell until it landed in her lap.

She reached up and pulled Jon’s head down to hers, capturing his lips with hers. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

His hands began to tug at the ribbons that tied her dress, loosening them so she could shrug out of it. “I need to see you.” His voice was thick with want now, and she felt her own body responding to him. Sansa stood, and stepped out of her fine silk dress, leaving her in only her shift, stockings, and smallclothes. She felt his dark gaze upon her, emboldening her to remove her shift as well.

She smiled as she saw his face grow even more pained with want. “Your turn.” She said, pulling him up to help him undress. His jerkin and tunic fell to the forest floor, and her hands roamed his chest and stomach, hard with muscle, yet soft with his smooth pale skin, a trail of gooseflesh following in the wake of her hands.

“I love you, Sansa, and I will make you my wife.” He said, as he laid her down on the ground, grasping at the ties of her smallclothes. She smiled and let her hands card through his curls. “You already have”, she whispered in his ear, causing him to let out a deep groan of appreciation.

She pulled at his breeches, coaxing them down, leaving his body bare to the cold autumn air. “We have to be quick.” She said, biting her lip.

“Aye.” His voice was full of mirth as he finished undoing her smallclothes, leaving her only in her stockings. His hand dipped down below the mound of soft auburn curls, to her wetness. He groaned and buried his head in her neck, breathing her in. “Always so wet for me, so warm.”

She felt her cheeks redden, felt her body keen into his touch. His thick length brushed against her thigh, making her let out a small moan. “Please, Jon, please.”

He positioned himself at her entrance and slowly guided the head of his cock inside her, causing her to moan loudly. Her moans spurred him on, and he thrust until he was fully inside of her, and she felt filled completely. It was simultaneously too much, and not enough. She needed the friction of his body, and the sweet torture of his thrusts.

As though he could read her mind, he began to thrust into her, steady and deep. Sansa felt her hands grasping at his back, pulling him closer to her. She felt his muscles rippling beneath his skin, felt his breath hot and heavy against her own skin, and his hand as it began to wander down to her center. When he began to stroke her nub in time with his thrusts, she felt her peak come upon her as a spark sets a fire, all encompassing and boundless. She felt her walls spasm and tighten around him, causing him to lose his own rhythm and he spilled inside her, whispering words of love in her ear.

 

\--

 

The next morning as breakfast was ending, Maester Luwin pulled at Jon’s hand to stop him. Sansa found herself stopping with him.

“Jon, your father has sent word from the Wall that you must travel north at once. He needs to speak with you.”

Jon’s face was a mask of apprehension. Sansa saw him take a heavy gulp of air, watching his throat clench. “Aye, I must speak with him too. I will leave tomorrow.” Maester Luwin nodded dutifully and walked back to his chambers.

As soon as he left, Sansa saw Jon begin to walk quickly back to his own chambers, the old chambers that had been his home a thousand years ago. “Jon! Jon, wait!” She cried out, trying to keep up with him. She felt her breakfast sitting ill in her stomach as she ran.

“I need to start packing, Sans. I need to go north.” His voice was strained, his expression implacable. "I need to talk to father, and after that I need to go find Bran adn Arya and bring them home." He pulled his chamber door open, leaving Sansa in the doorway. His chambers seemed smaller than they had when they were children. She let herself shiver slightly, as she thought about how much things had changed, how different the world seemed now. Why had her mother treated him so poorly, and why had she ever allowed it?

She crossed her arms and worried her lip. “I’m coming with you. We will face father together.”

“No, Sans, it’s not safe.”

She ran forward into his arms, wrapping her own around his neck. “I’m only safe when I’m with you.” She paused, feeling a smile spread across her face. “Maybe you can teach me the sword on our journey north.”

Jon smiled and held her head to his chest. “Aye, sweet girl, I’ll teach you to protect yourself, and then you’ll never need me again.”

I’ll always need you.” She smiled back at him, feeling him acquiesce to her request. “I’ll go start to pack now.” Sansa turned on her heel and ran back to her chambers.

She made it back just in time to lose her breakfast in her chamberpot, in front of her handmaidens. The two women looked at each other and shared a secret smile.

Sansa felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment, the tips of her ears burning. “It’s just the breakfast was so heavy, and I haven’t been feeling myself lately.” She stood and cleaned her face in a washbasin, feeling the women’s eyes still upon her.

One woman placed her hand on Sansa’s shoulder for reassurance. Sansa turned to see the kind woman’s eyes, and her soft chestnut hair wrapped in a braid. “My lady, when was your last moonblood?”

Sansa felt her stomach flip and lurch as though she would faint. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself from letting a hand drift to her stomach, as a feeling of warmth ran through her body.

 

\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! I really grappled with Ned's part, I rewrote the last few paragraphs at least a half dozen times. Honestly though, I grappled with the whole thing, this was a beast of a chapter, and I'm not ready to let go of these two 😢


	15. His Eyes Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran travels north and meets the three-eyed crow, Jon and Sansa reach the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken forever to put this together, I know. And I apologize for that. But first I wanted to fix up the earlier chapters that I botched, and after that I had to write this damn beast. It's 10k words, but it's done.
> 
> There are some book spoilers and head-canon theories playing around here in the conclusion. If you don't want those, stop reading after Jon's section!

**Bran**

The Wall was monstrous to behold, nearly five times the height of the castle walls that protected Winterfell. But unlike Winterfell, this wall was made entirely of ice. It seemed to be weeping in the autumn sun, tendrils of light playing off jagged edges and obscuring Bran’s vision as he craned his neck to see the top of it. Even atop Hodor in his basket, he could not see the top though, try as he might.

“Old Nan used to tell stories of Wildings who would climb over the walls and steal maidens away from their castles.” Arya said, a wide grin on her face. She looked ready to attempt the climb herself, and if her training with Syrio Forel were any indication, Bran felt certain she’d succeed.

_I could’ve climbed this too, once, in another life,_ Bran thought.

Meera Reed craned her own head upwards, a hand over her forehead to protect her eyes from the sun. “Those were just stories, no one could climb this.”

“Hodor” said Hodor, a wistful tone to his voice.

“So how do we all get over it then?” Arya asked, fingers playing at the hilt of her Needle, itching for the challenge.

“We don’t” Jojen Reed replied, his deep green eyes catching the rays of sunlight bouncing off the wall. “We go through it. There is a gate and a tunnel at Castle Black. That will be our way through.”

Arya and Bran shared a look with each other. Though they would be excited to see father once more, it seemed infinitely unlikely that he would let them through the Wall.

“Are you sure, Jojen?” She asked, her eyebrow cocked.

“I saw it in my dreams. We will get through the Wall at Castle Black.”

They knew better than to argue with Jojen and his green dreams. So far, he had not steered them wrong. Bran slipped into Summer’s skin and began to roam towards Castle Black, feeling the dry snow crunch below the pads of his paws, relishing in the strength and grace of his movements.

They reached Castle Black just before nightfall, their existence announced by a single long bellow out of a large horn. The loud, mourning call set Summer to howl in response. Bran saw heads poking out from behind the small gates of the Castle, which was less a castle, and more a fort. He heard them speaking in hushed tones and slipped into Summer once more to hear better. _Summer is better at most everything than me,_ he thought sadly.

_“It’s just some kids at the gate, Grenn, what harm can they do us?”_

_“They’ve got a direwolf with them, and that great monster of a man.”_

“Oy! What do you want down there!” The first voice called back down to them.

Arya stood forward, standing strong and proud and defiant. “I am Arya Stark, and this is Bran Stark, and we are here to see our father, Lord Eddard Stark.”

Bran heard the men speak once more in hushed tones but could not decipher their words.

“Lord Commander Stark?” The second man asked loudly.

“Aye! So you best let us in before nightfall!” Arya called back impatiently.

“Arya and Bran Stark are in Winterfell, with the rest of her family.” The first man called back, unrelenting.

“No, we are right here, before you. If you don’t believe me, then fetch my father, your Lord Commander, and get on with it!” Her voice was impudent, and her fingers played again along the hilt of her Needle. She held so much strength within her small frame, that for a second Bran wondered what it would be like to slip into her skin, even for a minute. He dismissed the thought quickly, grimacing at himself.

They waited outside for many minutes, the gates still barred shut. “Are you sure this was the right way through, Jojen?” His sister asked, as she readjusted her long brown hair into a tighter knot behind her head.

Bran slipped back out of Summer and into his own skin, noting the chill that had begun to gather in the air. When he looked to the sky, he expected to see dark clouds blotting out the sun but was surprised to find that it was the Wall that caused the light to darken and the air to chill so early in the evening. Somehow, the Wall seemed more menacing when the sun was not shining against it.

The sound of the gates being unbarred and slowly opening caused Bran’s eyes to drift carefully back down from the Wall to the castle in front of him. On the other side of the gate stood the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, dressed all in black. _Father, that’s father,_ a far-off voice said.

His face was awash with confusion and anger, his beard longer than it had ever been at Winterfell. He looked older, more tired, his face was dry and weathered, his hair blew wildly in the wind. “Arya! Bran! What are you doing here? What is wrong at Winterfell?”

He came to stand before Bran, level as Bran sat in the basket atop Hodor. “What folly is this, Bran?”

“We need to go North. We need to go past the Wall.”

His father faltered, looking at him aghast. He turned to look at the group, hoping for an explanation, as though that could help him understand.

“My Lord, I am Meera Reed, and this is my younger brother, Jojen Reed. Our father, Howland Reed, was one of your closest friends. He sent us to accompany Bran, to help him North. We must pass the Wall.”

“Then you are as guilty as he for putting all your lives in danger.” He said gruffly, his voice like gravel.

“But my Lord, you don’t understand –“ Jojen started, then stopped as the Lord Commander raised his hand.

“Nor do I care to. Tomorrow, I will send you back home with my most trusted men. If you ever come back here without my permission…” He trailed off, anger subsiding to sorrow.

“But father!” Arya chimed in, her voice bright and rapacious.

“It isn’t safe out there Arya. It isn’t even safe here. You don’t understand what is out there, you haven’t seen the things that we have seen.” Eddard Stark removed his glove from his hand and wiped it down his face.

Bran fixed his eyes on his father. “The Wildlings are coming, and behind them the Others. I have seen them riding atop their pale dead horses, I have seen them rip a man apart limb from limb. That is why you must let us go.”

For a second, the Lord Commander faltered, but he regained his self-assurance. “It’s one thing to remember the stories that Old Nan used to tell you Bran, but it’s another to know that it’s real.”

“I know it’s real, I have seen it. We must go North and find the three-eyed crow. It is my destiny to meet him.” Bran’s voice was implacable, still as water on a windless night. He briefly wondered if that would fare better or worse for their pleas.

“Your destiny is to go home to Winterfell, tomorrow. Men, take my children and the Reeds to the Maester’s keep and stand watch. Send Summer to the kennels and give him a hot meal.”

He looked pained, conflicted in his actions. He placed a hand on Bran’s shoulder. It felt cold and heavy. “I am glad to see your faces, know that. I truly am. But you have placed yourself in grave danger coming here, and your sister as well. I cannot allow you to do this thing. We will talk more of this in the morning, after you’ve had a hot meal and some sleep. That should put some sense in your body.”

He paused, looking at his daughter sadly. Arya looked crestfallen, defeated. “Someday soon, I will come south and visit you both at Winterfell.”

Bran looked at his father sadly. “If you do, we won’t be there.”

 

\--

 

“Tell me about this three-eyed crow of yours, Bran.” The old Maester’s voice was thin and wavering, his eyes had long gone blind. His thin fingers curled around a mug of mulled wine, and his face stared absently into the fire.

Bran had been sat in a chair near the fire as well, and had been given his own mulled wine, watered down and heavily sweetened. He lifted the cup to his mouth and allowed its warmth to seep into his body.

Arya had gone out to train with Hodor in the courtyard, much to the chagrin of the men of the Nightswatch. Jojen and Meera sat huddled in a corner sipping their own mulled wine and picking at pieces of their dinners. To his right sat a large man with a kind face, who seemed to be perspiring despite the chill in the air. He had introduced himself as Sam, and the Maester asked for him to sit with them.

“I began to see it after my fall from the Broken Tower, the fall that left me – like this.” He gestured to his useless legs. “It haunted me at first, pecking at my forehead and taunting me to fly. But I couldn’t fly, no matter how hard I tried. I was scared of it at first, because that third eye seemed to see something terrible, but the crow helped me awake. Without it, I would still be asleep in Winterfell.”

The old man considered Bran’s words, mulling them over for a time. “And you’re quite certain it was a crow?”

Bran paused. He had been sure it was a crow, Jojen had said it was a crow as well. He heard the squawks of ravens in the rookery above the keep.

Sam looked at Bran curiously. “They call men of the night’s watch crows, even though we use ravens for messages. Though I suppose it’s all the same thing in the end isn’t it? Black wings and sharp beaks and always begging for corn.”

“And they are both hated and misunderstood, aye Sam… Now tell me Bran, what does this three-eyed crow want of you? Why does it want you to go North?”

“We need to go North, so he can teach me things, things that would be hard to explain.” He wavered, unsure how much he could share, unsure how much they would believe. “I know you don’t believe me, I know it is hard to believe.”

“It is hard to believe that the Others are real too, isn’t it though?” The Maester sat back in his chair, sipping his wine, a small smile on his face. “Your father told me an interesting story he once heard as a child himself, about the Last Hero. Have you heard that story, Bran?”

Old Nan had told that story to him many times when he was a boy, and many more after his fall. “The Last Hero travels North to speak with the Children of the Forest to bring an end to the Long Night... ”

When he finished, his hands were clammy and his throat dry. “But that was just a story she used to tell me to frighten me, just like the ice spiders and the rat cook.”

“I suppose we’re all told so many tales when we are younger, it’s hard to know what’s real.”

The Maester finished his wine and began to rise ponderously from his seat. “You’ll have to excuse me, I must get to sleep. These bones are not as young as they used to be. It was good to meet you Bran, you as well Jojen and Meera. Sam will keep you company in my stead.”

He paused, fumbling for the stairwell. “Remember Sam, the guards switch at the hour of the wolf.” With that, the old man rose and slowly walked up the stairs to his bedchamber.

“Would you like some more mulled wine, Bran? It helps to settle my stomach.” Sam asked, as he stood, pouring himself another mug full. _He must need a great deal then, to settle a stomach that large._ Bran bit back the words, and nodded slowly, glad for the warmth the wine provided.

“You shouldn’t want to go North, Bran. It’s so dangerous. There’s wildlings, and shadowcats, and the Others. The Others raise the dead too and use them as their army. You wouldn’t be safe.” Sam said, sipping his wine.

“We will be safe.” Jojen said quietly from the corner of the room. He had been silent, observing all night. He had been quiet a lot lately, his greendreams took a toll on his small frame. “I’ve seen it. We will make it there safely. And you will help us there.”

Sam let out a chortle. “No, I won’t. Your Lord father scares me so. He reminds me of my father, and my father was a hard man, and punished anyone who defied him.”

Jojen stood and walked to the fire, looking into the flames. “You will. When the guards change duty, you will take us to the gate. You will open it and let us through, and the Lord Commander will never know who helped us.”

Sam was biting his lip in contemplation. “Why do you need to go North so badly? What is there?”

“Why are you leaving for the Citadel?” Bran countered.

“To help us prepare for the Others. To learn and to understand what is happening.”

“Then we are both leaving for the same reason.” Bran looked at Sam, whose face was full of fear, but also a spark of curiousity.

“Aye, I suppose so.” Sam’s fingers played with the mug of wine, slowly turning it in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the fire, watching the flames dance against the logs of wood.

“If I do this thing for you, Bran, will you promise to never tell your father?”

 

 

\---------

 

 

**Jon**

They had left Winterfell reluctantly nigh two weeks ago, leaving Rickon crying and screaming, and grasping at Sansa’s skirts. He had begged and begged for them to stay, and Jon had begged Sansa to stay as well, but she had been determined to go north with him, and Jon found he could not deny her anything.

Ghost padded behind their garrons, silent as always, more protective of them than he had ever been. _There must be wolves in the woods,_ Jon thought uncomfortably.

Thankfully, they were much better supplied than before, laden with food and cloaks and two horses for all their supplies. It was a welcome change, though part of Jon longed to feel Sansa sitting atop his horse, leaning into his body for warmth as she had before. But that had only led to more trouble. Jon felt his cheeks blush thinking about how carried away they had gotten in the Godswood at Winterfell. If anyone had seen them… Well, he didn’t want to think about that.

Much to his dismay though, Sansa still seemed slightly ill. Though she could keep her midday and evening meals down, more often than not her breakfast still would not sit. She had assured him it was nothing of concern, just a persistent stomach illness. Jon was careful not to travel too far each day and had opted to stop at Last Hearth one night to help her in her convalescence.

Though the Greatjon Umber and his eldest son, the Smalljon were south riding off to war with Robb, the castle still had many folk present to host them for a night, and it did well to soothe both Sansa’s and the Umbers’ spirits. They held a small feast for Jon and Sansa, to which Jon was happy to have been invited to. It was a pleasant change of pace to how he’d lived in Winterfell, a thousand years ago.

The ale and mead had flown freely, thick and strong and heavy on his tongue. He found himself thoroughly enjoying his time, sitting and regaling the story of how he and Ghost and the Hound had killed the Mountain. He showed them the sword that had helped with the deed. It was no larger than any other sword, not even castle forged steel, but it had served him well, and the Umbers praised him nonetheless.

He felt his heart swell with joy as his gaze drifted to Sansa, who had managed to eat a serving of boar and suckling pig, and was now speaking with the Lady Anya Umber, wife of the Greatjon. They were giggling and Sansa was sipping sparingly on watered mead. _She was made to be a queen,_ he thought dreamily.

They left early the next morning, back on the King’s Road heading north. Sansa had already managed to retch up her breakfast twice before Jon haltered their garrons and helped her from her horse, sick with worry.

“Sansa, please tell me what is wrong.” Jon begged, holding back her hair as she continued to retch.

“It’s nothing, just this wretched illness.” She tried to push him away to gain privacy, embarrassed of becoming sick. But she had been ill for a month now. Jon was no maester, but a month of illness seemed very out of sorts to him. His mind drifted to a dark place, thinking of the pox, greyscale, and gods, how had he not thought of it before? The bloody flux.

“Sansa, please”, he whispered, his hands holding her frail body to his. “Gods, please.” He held her so tightly, he could feel her heartbeat against his chest, could feel her breath against his cheek. It was grounding, but it wasn’t enough. He lifted his hands to her face, looking deep into her eyes, seeing fear staring back at him.

Her eyes were rimmed with redness from the force of her heaving, her cheeks red from the effort. She had never looked more beautiful, or more delicate. “Sansa, please, you must tell me what is wrong. Please, my heart is breaking.”

She bit her lip, looking down at the ground. She took a deep, measured breath, letting the air exhale slowly. “Jon.” She began, then faltered. _Please gods, not the flux._

Tears began to stream down her cheeks in earnest, as they stood in the autumn snows. She looked away from him once more.

“I’m not ill, Jon.”

His heart skipped a beat, then pounded loud and fast in his head. _Not ill? Then what?_

There was a glimmer of a memory in the back of his mind, one he had long forgotten. The Lady Stark had been with child, the babe who would be named Rickon. She had been so ill that she could scarcely leave her apartments for the first few moon turns, and when she did she had been prone to being sick. Jon had learned to stay away from her, lest he suffer the consequences of her increasing rage at his very existence.

_She had been with child. A babe._

Jon’s face paled, and his vision dimmed around the corners of his eyes. All he could see was Sansa, her bright auburn hair shining against the white of the snow. He saw the sadness in her eyes, and the fear.

_A babe._

He had only been allowed to hold baby Rickon once, when Lady Stark had been away. The wetnurse had shown him how to hold his little brother in his arms, all flailing limbs and screaming wails. Yet, when Jon held the babe in his arms, he marveled at how such a small thing could grow up to be a man. His small shock of auburn hair, so similar to Sansa’s, and his bright blue eyes staring into Jon’s face. He was a curious babe, his small, chubby hands reaching up to grasp at Jon’s own dark curls. Jon had reached his own hand to the babe’s, letting it clasp one finger with its whole hand.

_We are brothers_ , he had whispered quietly, holding the babe tight to him. _The only babe I’m like to ever see, to ever hold,_ he had thought to himself, never daring to believe he could ever bring a babe of his own to this world.

“I need you to say it, Sansa.” His voice was calm, measured, not revealing the turmoil within his own head.

_How could I have been so careless? How could I have let this happen?_ And yet, there was a spreading warmth inside him, a joy he thought he’d never be granted, _a family._

“I’m with child.” She whispered, quiet as the snow that had begun to fall around them. Her voice was high and wavering, choked and pained. “I’m so sorry, Jon, I’m so sorry.” Tears began to fall freely now, pouring down her face. She threw herself into his arms, and he gathered her to his body as tight as he could. He held her fast against him, letting her head sit safely beneath his chin.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Sansa. Nothing.”

“Are you not mad with me, Jon? Please, I need to know.” She pulled herself free enough to look him in the eyes. “I need to know what I should do.” She bit her lip, looking down at her still flat belly.

“You should eat as much as you wish, sleep as much as you wish, and be my wife. This time, properly, for all the realm to know.” He pulled her to him once more, holding her against him as she wept freely.

He laid one hand upon her belly, thinking of the little babe growing there, his little wolf. It was all he had ever dreamed of, but never believed he would have. A beautiful wife, a beautiful babe, a family of his own. He smiled wider than he ever had in his life, causing Sansa to giggle as she looked at him. He pulled her in for a long kiss, letting her feel his joy and happiness.

Until, he thought of their destination.

His face darkened suddenly, storm clouds in a sunny sky.

“What is it, Jon?” Sansa asked, fearful once more.

Jon chewed on the inside of his mouth, brooding. “I fear we may actually have to travel to Essos to escape the wrath of your parents.” He said with dark humour and a dry laugh that sounded more like a cough.

Sansa laughed, and leaned back into him. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I don’t care what happens, as long as I’m with you.”

“After I find Bran and Arya and bring them home.” Jon added.

“After _we_ find Bran and Arya.” Sansa countered. But it would be a fruitless argument now that Jon knew she was with child. It was too dangerous, and now doubly so. He only hoped she would see it once they reached the wall.

**\--**

It was another week until they reached the Wall. Travel had been slowed by Sansa’s condition, though Jon found a certain joy in caring for her. He had taken to placing his hand to her still flat stomach, dreaming of the little babe that they would have. Would it be a boy or a girl? _A boy_ , he thought.

Would he take after his father, or his mother? Jon hoped he’d take after Sansa, that he’d be full of life and love and joy. And he would do whatever it took to provide that for his wife and his child, no matter the cost.

Jon had never seen Castle Black before, but when he laid his eyes upon it, he found himself in want of more. How could this be the legendary place where the men of the Nightswatch resided? It was barely a castle. But behind it stood the Wall, it’s shadow cast for hundreds of metres. He could feel the cold air emanating from the massive ice structure, he could see Sansa shiver slightly, wrapping her fur cloak tighter around herself.

Instead of continuing on to the castle though, he felt a pull, transfixed by the Wall. It glimmered in the sunlight, looking almost as though it were white-hot, like the centre of a fire. Yet, he knew it was frozen cold, it had to be. He pushed his garron closer to the Wall, leaving Ghost with Sansa. The horse whinnied nervously, but trudged along all the same over the dry, flaky snow.

Jon dismounted when he was only metres from the Wall and walked forward. Why, he wasn’t sure, but for some reason he knew he must touch the Wall. It was like it would only be real if he could touch it for himself. He walked forward, pulling his thick wool-lined glove off his right hand. The wind and cold bit at the bare skin, but he barely noticed.

He reached out and touched the Wall, his fingertips connecting with the ice. It was so cold he could barely bring himself to keep his hand on it, but he did, until his whole hand connected with it, palms and fingertips flush against it. It’s only then that he feels _it._ A small, quiet vibration that is emanating from the Wall and connecting with his palm, with his fingertips. It permeates him like the heat that travels through Winterfell from its hot springs. It’s as though the Wall itself has an energy, a power.

“Jon, I’m glad you got my message.”

Jon was ripped from his own thoughts, and spun around, letting his hand fall from the Wall. He turned to find his lord father in front of him, dressed all in black. He looked older, more weary, but stronger too. The quiet, graceful strength of Eddard Stark had been replaced by a harder, even more implacable façade.

“Father!” Jon couldn’t help himself, and maybe he _was_ still a green boy, because as soon as his own dark grey eyes met his father’s, tears began to run down his cheeks. Damn propriety and damn pride, Jon ran forward to his father, and wrapped his arms around him. Ned responded in kind, wrapping his own arms around his lost son.

He could feel his father’s warmth through all the furs and boiled leather, and he could smell that scent that is so uniquely his father’s, so uniquely northern. It brought him home, to family and food and just a little too much ale. It is the scent of the Godswood, and the hot springs, and fresh fallen snow. He is home at last. Jon pulled away from his father slowly.

“Jon, why is Sansa here?”

Jon bristled instantly.

_Because I love her, and she loves me. Because I am here to ask for her hand in marriage, and am prepared to die for that right. Because I have made a terrible mess of everything I have ever touched, but love her all the same._

But Jon didn’t say that. Instead, he chewed his lip and pondered for a moment. “I told you I would keep her safe no matter the cost. I cannot do that if I leave her in Winterfell.”

Ned nodded, but his face darkened, his eyes pinched in contemplation. “She would have been safer there, but I am glad to see her once more all the same.”

Ned walked back to where Sansa was hurriedly dismounting, pausing to give Ghost a scratch behind his ear. He picked his daughter up into his arms and held her close to him. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, face buried in the furs of his cloak.

The gates to the castle opened, and Jon led the horses inside. Ghost sauntered inside too, red eyes piercing through every man who dared cross his path.

And indeed, the men seem to fear and respect Ned, and that same respect was somehow bestowed upon Sansa and Jon. It’s then that Jon realized the truth. Their father has been named Lord Commander of the Nightswatch. He felt both pride and dread swell within his chest.

It’s also then that Jon notices how sparse the grounds are, how few men there are to hold this _castle._ The thought occurred to him that with his lord father as the Lord Commander, the Nightswatch was now unlikely to ever see any new recruits from the south again. His brow furrowed.

“Come Jon, let’s go to the godswood and talk. Sansa, I will send you to the maester to make sure you are well after your journey.”

Sansa paused, feet planted in the muddy brown snow, looking at Jon pleadingly. Jon relented. “No, what we need to speak of, Sansa should be there too.”

Ned looked at Jon, dismayed and surprised in turn. “If you knew what we must speak of, you wouldn’t feel this way.”

Jon closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself. In the next moments, he would further disgrace himself, forever ruin the patchwork family that he had been given, turning it all away. But it didn’t matter anymore, not now, not after everything that had happened. “Whatever you have to tell me, I wish for Sansa to hear it.”

They set forth beyond the wall with a small retinue of 10 men. Sansa sat atop her own garron, only feet from Jon’s own. Their lord father led the thin procession under the wall. Even here, Jon felt the low hum of vibration of the Wall, as though it were calling to him, beckoning him to the other side. _To find Bran and Arya_.

The sun was waning by the time they made it to the godswood and entered the circle of weirwood trees, more than Jon had ever seen together in his life. Even the great heart tree at Winterfell paled in comparison to this massive grove. The face of each tree was carved differently, each possessing its own garish grimace of a smile, eyes piercing into him from all around him. _The old gods are watching me now_ , he thought with a sudden clarity. A shiver passed down his spine.

They dismounted from their horses and walked to the middle of the grove, the retinue taking defensive positions surrounding them. There were wildlings about, and other things, darker things looming beyond in the shadows.

Jon stood as tall as he could, facing his father. What do you say to a man that you have dishonoured? To a man who gave you everything, and you turned it all to dust? What do you say to a man that charged you to protect his daughter, and you fell in love with her? _And now she’s carrying my babe._

Bile creeped up his throat at the thought. Would his father kill him? Here? What did he mean to do? Why bring him all this way, why risk passing through the Wall?

Ned looked at him with a sort of wistful sorrow, a sad smile pulling across his face. He placed his gloved hand upon Jon’s shoulder. “Jon, when I sent for you, it was because there is something I must tell you.”

Jon bristled, his father was giving him love and encouragement, and he stood here, a liar, a craven, a _bastard._

“There is something I need to tell you first, father.” He shifted his gaze to Sansa, who stood stroking the mane of her garron nervously. Her eyes were bluer than the sky, welled up with tears. _Our fates have been sealed._

Ned furrowed his brow, but his hand stayed firm on Jon’s shoulder. It was both a welcome encouragement, and a searing brand to his own guilt. “Very well.”

“You charged me to protect Sansa in King’s Landing. You charged me to keep her safe and let no harm come to her. I failed in that.” He paused, biting down tears. “You charged me to do what was right, no matter the cost, to make hard decisions and do what was needed for our family. I failed in that as well.”

He knelt down before his father, unsheathing his sword from his scabbard, and placed it in front of Ned’s feet. “I have dishonoured you. I have dishonoured our family. Most of all, I have dishonoured Sansa.”

He heard the sound of her weeping several feet away, saw the confusion in his father’s eyes as he looked up at him, at his mercy. “I have fallen in love with her, father.”

He hung his head in shame, letting his body double over, letting his head sink into the snow at their feet.

“Jon.”

He heard the sounds of his father shifting, moving, but dared not look up. _Let him hit me, let him kill me, let him have a father’s revenge._

But instead, he felt a hand on his back, calm and reassuring. He glanced up, just for a second, to see his father kneeling down in the snow in front of him. Sansa rushed forward towards Jon, collapsing into him, her skirts covered with the powder, and sure to be soaked through by the time they returned. But that didn’t matter now. Nothing else mattered now.

“Do you love him too, Sansa?”

Sansa turned to Jon, letting her small gloved hands intertwine with his. “I do, father.” She bit her lip, trying to stifle her own tears, but they continued unbidden. “We have said vows in front of a heart tree.”

Jon could feel the warmth of her hands through the gloves, reassuring him. It gave him strength. No matter what happened now, they would be together. No one could take that away from them. They would face this together, live in exile together, or whatever punishment their lord father saw fit.

Wind whistled through the trees for a minute while no one spoke, Jon and Sansa looking at each other for strength, Ned kneeled in the snow, his cloak blowing in the wind. A weirwood leaf fell off a tree and blew past them slowly, scraping a slow meandering path along the snow.

When Jon finally got the courage to look up at Ned, he saw a queer expression of mirth and disbelief on his face. Instead of Jon, Ned looked instead at his daughter. Her hair was being tousled by the wind, her lips red and chapped from their travels, but she had never looked more beautiful. She kneeled resolutely beside Jon, their hands still intertwined.

“Sansa, I promised you a long time ago that we would find you a better husband than Joffrey, someone brave and gentle and strong. That we’d find someone to be your Aemon the dragonknight.” He laughed then, a crisp bark that echoed through the tree branches, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Who’d have thought you’d find him yourself… The gods play cruel jokes on us all, don’t they?”

He laughed again, shaking his head. “All this time, all these years. I spent my life trying to protect you, Jon.”

Jon hung his head in shame, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I know father, I’m so sorry.”

But Ned just laughed again, his hand moving back to Jon’s shoulder. “You don’t understand, Jon. I spent my life trying to protect you, trying to hide you, trying to keep you safe. I did so many things, so many terrible things to keep you safe. But the worst thing I ever did was to lie to you.”

Jon looked up at his father in confusion, expecting to see anger, but seeing only sadness and love. “When did you lie, father? Why aren’t you mad at me?”

Ned shook his head slowly, looking from Jon to Sansa, and back once more. His expression was pained, his jaw set. “I lied to you Jon every day of your life. Every time you sat at the back of the hall, every night when you went to the small chambers that you were given, every time I called you son, and you called me father. I lied to everyone, to keep you safe. But it should never have been my choice or my decision. It was always yours. A man has a right to know his own destiny. You see Jon, you are not my son, and I am not your father. You have to understand, when I got to Dorne, when I got to the broken tower, it was already too late, and she was dying. She died bringing you into this world, but she loved you with all her heart. She told me to protect you, at any cost, at all costs. I promised to do so, and I have tried to do so ever since. I have tried to do the right thing for you, but… I’m not so sure I know what that is anymore.”

Jon’s head was reeling. He couldn’t understand what was being said, what was happening. “Who was she? Who was my mother?” His voice was wavering, broken and hoarse.

Ned took a deep breath, pressed his eyes together tightly, then opened them once more to look at Jon. “Your mother was my sister, Lyanna Stark. I was charged with rescuing her from Dorne to bring her back north. This whole war, everything I started with Robert, everything we did, we did because we thought she had been kidnapped. I didn’t know, Jon. I didn’t know, but how could I have? She loved him. They married in front of heart tree near the Trident, and he sent her away to be safe. He sent her away because he loved her too.”

Jon felt Ned’s hands clasp his own, heard the sound of Sansa gasping and crying. He knew he must be too, he saw tears streaming down into the snow, onto his hands and cloak, and the sword that lay forgotten between them in the snow. But he couldn’t feel anything at all, as though he were a hundred miles away. He could have been crying in anguish, or in joy, but he did not know, could not know which.

_My mother was Lyanna Stark. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father is not Eddard Stark._

_My father is not my father._

“Who is my father?”

Ned paused, looking around them, making sure they were alone. “Jon, your father was Rhaegar Targaryen. You are the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You were born in a broken tower in Dorne, and I took you back to Winterfell. I raised you as my own son to protect you, to keep you safe from Robert’s wrath. But Robert is dead now, and you are safely back in the North now. You deserve to know. You’ve never been a bastard. You are a Targaryen.”

_Targaryen._

_I am not a Snow, I am a Targaryen._

“Lyanna died before she could give you a name, so I named you after the man I most admired in the seven kingdoms. After a man who was just and honourable and true, after Jon Arryn.”

Jon’s mind went back to his childhood, to all the times he had been disgraced and shunned, to all the slights and all the sadness. He thought of the crippling loneliness that he had felt alone in his chambers. He thought of how it had been to grow up without a mother, surrounded by… _by my cousins._

_Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Sansa. They are not my brothers and sisters._

_And I am not a bastard._

He thought of all the feasts and processions and of Robb telling him he’d never be Lord of Winterfell. He thought of hand me downs and worn shoes, and Theon’s sneers. He thought of all the times he had sat before the heart tree and begged not to be a bastard, not to be so _alone._

Simultaneously, it was as though he were lifted, exalted, all his dreams come true, and yet he was more alone than he had ever been. Now, not only did he have no mother, but no father either. _They’re all dead._ _And I would have been too, if it weren’t for father… for Eddard Stark._

He felt as though his limbs were leaden, as though he were frozen in place, ice incarnate.

“Jon?” Sansa’s voice was quiet as a mouse, her hand pulled at him, at his face, bringing it towards her own. “Jon? I need you to say something. I need to know if you’re okay.”

“I’m. I’m. I’m not a Snow. I’m not a bastard.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over, looking for something, some sign that he was dreaming, that this were not real.

“No. You are a Targaryen. And-“ Jon heard a sharp, laboured inhale of breath. He looked up to see his uncle’s eyes staring down at him, so similar to his own. _What would they have done if I would have favoured my father in looks?_

“Jon. You are the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the rightful King.”

**_No._ ** _Gods, no._

He felt his stomach gurgle angrily at the thought of ever returning to King’s Landing. After everything it took to leave, everything they sacrificed. He had murdered men, to save Sansa, to save himself. How could he go back? How could he face it all again?

How could he take a throne from a little boy? From little Tommen, who cared more about pressing seals into hot wax, and chasing the castle tomcats. How could he take the throne from Stannis, who had aligned himself with that dark sorceress? How could he take the throne, and deny Robb his new crown? Could he do these things? Would he do these things?

In the background, he could hear Sansa weeping and his father, _his uncle,_ trying to console her. But there would be no consolation. Not now, never again.

Finally, after a time, he found the courage to speak. “No.”

Sansa looked to him, eyes red and puffy from her crying. “Jon, you are the rightful heir, there is no one else. You must take it, for the good of the realm.”

He looked at Sansa, then at Ned, then at the last rays of sun tucking underneath the horizon.

This was the north, the true north. This was home, not King’s Landing.

“Seven take the realm, the North is what matters. We are what matters.”  

He heard the sharp inhale of breath, but no longer cared. He pulled Sansa close to him, taking strength from her warmth, from the faint scent of her, a smell that he had come to expect, to crave. But as he held her, he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, felt something not quite right.

There was something wild and untamed and dark here, north of the Wall. All the things that called to him here; Arya and Bran and the Wall itself, it seemed a siren song, a dark shadow cast upon the back of his eye. He could smell it, cold as ice, sharp and unrelenting, hanging in the air.

_There’s something else here._

He noticed the guards around the grove becoming agitated the darker it became.

“We have to go now, don’t we father?” He bristled. “Uncle.”

Ned winced slightly at the correction. “Aye...”

“What’s coming? What comes in the night? Wildlings?”

“And worse. There will be time to speak of these things. First, we must get back to Castle Black before night falls.”

Jon stood slowly, his knees wet and frozen through his breeches. His body was numb, his limbs moved sluggishly. Was it the cold, or the truth hanging so heavy around his neck? He bent down to pick up his sword, the sword he had been ready to give up.

“What comes in the night?” He repeated himself once more, one hand on the reins of his palfrey, the other clasping Sansa’s.

“The Others. They have returned. It’s why the wildlings have come so far south.” Ned grimaced, standing up as well. “I fear that it is only a matter of time… We have to go, now. I shouldn’t have risked it, taking you out here, I just don’t know who I can trust at Castle Black, and there are ears everywhere.”

They rode back in silence. Jon still felt numb to everything, until Sansa beckoned her garron closer to his own, reaching out her hand to hold his. He looked her in the eyes, remembering something someone had once told him. _Love comes in at the eyes._

“I love you, Jon.” She whispered, pressing her lips to his hand. And with that, he felt his body thaw.

 

\--

 

They sat in the Lord Commander’s solar, beside a roaring fire. Each of them nursed a mug of sour ale, though it may as well have been water, as Jon could taste nothing. How would he even begin again, now that he knew what he knew? All those years, and all that pain. It couldn’t be erased, and in some ways, this knowledge had made it worse. To know that the aching, yearning, twisting feeling in his gut had been justified. How do you heal that?

He was ashamed to admit that in that moment, all he felt was anger to the man that he had thought was his father. Jon understood that Ned had only been trying to protect him, but why then had he allowed Jon to suffer so long? Would he have allowed Jon to take vows and forsake his titles, and not tell him? Would he have lived and died in King’s Landing, only a stone’s throw from everything he deserved, yet had never received?

He had spent most of his childhood dreaming that someday he could be called Jon Stark. Now though, who was he? Jon Targaryen? That didn’t sound right either. Nothing sounded right, nothing felt right, except Sansa.

Ned looked from the fire to Jon, repentant and with brows furrowed. “Jon, what can I do to make amends for what I’ve done?”

Jon looked from Ned to Sansa. He felt that twisting within his gut once more, but this time he wasn’t afraid. The man who sat in front of him was _a_ father, but not _his_ father, not anymore. He took a deep, measured breath, and looked to Sansa for comfort, for reassurance, for anything. She smiled back at him, melting his heart.

“I ask that you grant me permission to wed Sansa, properly, as soon as possible.”

Her smile widened further, her eyes crinkling as her mouth upturned.

“Sansa, is this what you wish?”

“More than anything, father.”

Ned smiled a rueful smile. “I suppose, after all this time, it would be fitting for you to be a queen.”

Jon chewed his lip in concentration. _And our babe will be a prince._ _But will that be a curse for him, or a blessing?_

“Very well. You will wed in the godswood tomorrow. Though, perhaps during the day, rather than the night.” Ned rose from his chair, placing his empty mug of ale on a table. He pulled his cloak from a hook near the door and fastened it around his neck. “There is something else, something I haven’t told you yet. Please give me leave, I’ll be back shortly.” Ned walked from the room, and from the tower.

In that moment, Jon felt his body gravitating towards Sansa. He stood and walked to her chair, tucked close to the fire. He knelt down and put his head in her lap, letting her run her hands through his dark curls. He didn’t know exactly what he needed, but somehow her hands in his hair, the warmth of the fire and her legs, this was enough.

Ned arrived several minutes later, with an old, withered man on his arm. Jon stood to face the man, who had tears streaming from his blind eyes. “Jon, this is Maester Aemon.”

“Aemon?” Jon felt his heart skip a beat, just for a second.

Ned nodded gravely. “Yes, Aemon Targaryan. I wanted to show you that are not alone. Not here, not now, and you never have been.”

The old man softly padded towards Jon, his hand outstretched until it touched Jon’s chest. He then moved his hands up to Jon’s face, tracing his features. “Northern features.” Aemon chuckled lightly to himself. “You take after your mother, though I suppose that was for the best.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Did you know-“ _What do I call him? Father?_ “Did you know Rhaegar?”

The old man’s face broke into a small, sad smile. “Aye, I did Jon. Whatever you have heard of him, he was a good man. Perhaps a bit prone to melancholy…”

Sansa let out a little giggle from across the room. “I guess that is where you got it from, Jon.”

Aemon turned his head to the direction of her voice. “And who is this?”

Ned walked Aemon over to Sansa, letting him run his hands across her face as well. “This is my eldest daughter, Sansa.”

The old man paused, his fingers tracing her high cheekbones, her small nose. “She has the Tully look, I’d wager. A beautiful woman, who will make you a beautiful wife, Jon.” He gave Jon that small, knowing smile once more, a small chuckle bursting from his lips.

He dropped his hands, and slowly walked to a chair and sat down. “We have much to discuss this evening Jon, but first, I have a favour to ask of you. Though I’ve never attended a northern wedding, I have heard that the family of the bride and groom present each other. I ask that you indulge an old man, and allow me to stand as your family tomorrow, if you will have me.”

Sansa squeezed Jon's hand for support, and he felt suddenly, completely overwhelmed. He was a bastard, none of this was real. Surely, this couldn’t be real? “Jon, say something”, she whispered in his ear, breaking him from his thoughts.

He looked at the old maester, hunched over and grey. But he did look regal, he looked almost kingly. “Aye, I would be honoured, Maester Aemon.”

Aemon nodded his head slightly, letting his fingers run across the coarse wood grain of the chair he sat in. “Now, onto less joyful, but just as necessary matters. Where will you go, Jon? What will you do once you are wed?”

Jon felt the air in the room shift. It felt suddenly far too warm, as though the fire had taken all the air away, and he was gasping for breath. _Where_ will _I go? What_ will _I do?_

Once more, he thought of King’s Landing and Cersei Lannister and little Tommen and Stannis Baratheon. Then he thought of what he had felt in the godswood earlier, and he knew what he must do.

He looked to Ned for _something_. Reassurance? Acceptance? He wasn’t sure. Ned nodded carefully, succinctly. “I will always love you as my own son, my own blood. And I will support both you and Sansa in anything you choose.”

Jon felt a wash of relief pass over him. “I will stay here. We will stay here, until the Others are defeated. If they win, then the throne won’t be worth a damn thing anyway. First though, I beg leave to go north to find Arya and Bran and bring them safely home.”

Sansa rushed forward, into his arms. “Jon, you can’t! It’s too dangerous!”

He felt a small smile pass by his face, but even he knew it was a tired thing. “All the more reason to bring Arya and Bran home safely. We cannot leave them there. The pack protects itself.”

“But Jon! You heard father, there are wildlings and Others out there. If one doesn’t kill you, then surely the other will. You can’t sacrifice this, not now that we know who you are.”

Jon shook his head resolutely. He knew what he had to do, to redeem himself. “I am the same person I was this morning, Sansa. Knowing who my mother and father were does not change who I am, and who I am is a man who protects his family. I will leave the day after tomorrow, after we are wed.”

_After I make sure I don’t leave you with a bastard._

Ned’s brow furrowed, but he nodded all the same. “I will assign you 25 men to accompany you north. I wish it could be more, but-“

“Jon, no, you cannot do this!” Sansa was weeping freely now.

Jon walked to Sansa, his hands cupped her cheeks gently. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry, I will have Ghost and the old gods watching over me. I will come home safe, to our family.”

When he looked at her in the eyes, he willed her to hear what he could not say aloud. _I will not leave you alone to raise our babe. I vow this._

She closed her eyes solemnly, as though she knew what he had thought. He turned to Ned and Aemon, one hand still holding Sansa’s.

“Leave Cersei to fight Stannis for the damned Iron Throne. We will fight for what matters. We will fight for life and light and the dawn.”

 

 

\--------

 

 

**Bran**

 

Bran sat inside a vast cave, tucked below the roots of a massive weirwood tree. It had taken them several months to make the journey north to the cave of the three-eyed crow. They had been aided along the way by a man who sat atop a great elk, with hands as cold as ice, and as black as charcoal. He never gave his name, and Bran never deigned to ask it.

The cave itself was warded against the wights, and twisted and turned between the massive root network, seemingly vast and endless. Within the caves lived hundreds of the remaining children of the forest, and the three-eyed crow himself.  

The three-eyed crow sat in his throne of roots, his one eye unblinking and unyielding, gazing upon Bran. With a voice as old as time, he spoke slowly but surely. “It’s time Bran.”

One pale white hand extended outward, a small bowl of weirwood paste clasped within it. He reached out, beckoning Bran to take it and eat it. Bran grasped the bowl in his hand, feeling the paper-thin skin brush against his own, sending a shiver through his body.

“Eat, and see.”

Bran ate the weirwood paste, while Jojen sat in a corner keeping watch. It was dry and chalky in his mouth, but he swallowed down every bite of it. He sat there for a time, feeling nothing.

“How long until it takes effect?” He asked, dizzy with anticipation.

“It already has, my child.” The answer came as leaves rustling in the wind, and for the first time Bran understood what the heart trees had been trying to say all those years. In an instant he stood back atop the broken tower. In another, he was falling once more, pushed by the golden prince and his princess. But this time, he did not cry out in fear, for he found instead of falling, he was flying.

Then Bran saw a thousand visions all at once, in the blink of an eye.

There was a tournament in the year of the false spring, held in view of the old gods. A crannogman, a great stag, a she-wolf, and her dragon prince. A weirwood tree laughed as it wept red tears, for men can never truly see the will of gods.

A false king stands on ancient stone, hard and unyielding. Soon he sets sail for the North with a plan and a false promise. A woman red as the blood of a weirwood stands behind him, looking through the flames at Bran, watching, waiting.

Two men stand in a rookery, feeding ravens. They speak of love and honour and duty. That same man spoke these words long ago too, in a different tower, one broken in its own fashion. A pack of wolves gather in a grove of weirwood trees, to howl to the moon and await its reply.

A woman with a heart of stone seeks vengeance but finds only ruin. An eternal war without need or necessity, waged for pride and bloodlust, as all wars are. An eternal balance only achieved through love and suffering. A woman screams in her birthing bed as a man cries out in his death bed.

Rubies fall into the river water, never to be seen by mortal eyes again. A babe’s head is dashed against a wall by a mountain. A young wolf dies by a raventree, drowning in a salt sea wave, body wrapped in a pink cloak. A lion that casts a shadow taller than any man seeks out the mummer’s dragon.

Dragons perch on a cliff, waiting to devour their prey. They fly through the air, over the great salt sea, coming home to roost. Long ago, their flames forged the Iron Throne, and bent the seven kingdoms to their will. Long before that, the children of the forest owned these lands. Before that still, the realm belonged only to the gods and their beasts, a world unbent and unbroken. Winter comes, and with it the illusion of an eternal spring.

A squalling babe is born with eyes like storm clouds, with the heart of a dragon and the spirit of a wolf. A winter rose growing from within a chink in a wall of ice taller than any tree. A prince born amidst smoke and salt, with a destiny as old as time itself.

A thousand miles away, in another time, another babe with eyes cold and blue as weeping ice came into the world. A raven flies due north, farther than any human has ever been. A great palace of ice rises up amidst mountains, shining and gleaming in the winter sun. The little babe’s cry rings loud and true, echoing through the mountain pass. A man that isn’t a man holds the babe tight in his arms, looking straight at Bran.

 

Bran’s eyes opened wide as he awoke suddenly, air rushing into his lungs.

 

He focused on the man in front of him, on the Bloodraven and his thousand and one eyes.

 

Time spread out before him, endless and circular.

 

 

 

\--------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you to everyone who has left an encouraging comment or kudos along this journey! There's no way I would have been able to get here without you! 
> 
> I hope this ending brings you some closure, even though it is open-ended. In my mind, it was always about the R + L = J reveal, but I know it's not endgame. It's crazy how what started in my mind as a short story about Jon going with Sansa to King's Landing turned into this, but here we are! 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, of this story, of how things will go down in the books, or anything in between!!


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